"  Why,  Edward!  I  never  knew  that  you  had  a  cousin  living."  (Page  117.) 


OE  A, 


THE  LOST  WII^E 


BT 


BELLA  Z.  SPENCER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "tried  AND  TRUE,"  ETC. 


SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. . 

W.  J.  HOLLAND  &  CO. 

ST.  LOUIS,  MO. :  ^ 
AKDREY  &  SUBIT.  * 
1869. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  186!'i,  by 

P.  0.  BROWNE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States 
for  the  Southern  District  of  Ohio. 


CONTENTS. 

•  •  •  

Chapter.  Page. 

1.  A  Night  of  Sorrow  and  Desolation,  .    .  5 

II.  Dr.  Clifton's  Family,   ,  12 

III.  Situation  Offered  and  Accepted,  ...  28 

IV.  An  Exciting  Scene,  38 

'T^        V.    A  Web  to  Unravel,  48 

^.       VI.    Painful  Interview,  55 

i      VII.  An  Amicable  Settlement — Endeavoring 

TO  Solve  a  Mystery,    .  64 

^     VIIL  Scenes  of  Tender  Interest  and  Beauty,  81 

^       IX.  A  Riddle  to  Solve,  .........  89 

^        X.   "  Or a's"  Flight,  100 

XI.  Change  of  Scene — Early  Years,     .    .    .  113 

'^v      XII.    Clouds  Eising,   120 

r*^    XIII.    Darker  Clouds,  128 

i\    XIV.    Temporary  Shelter,  .  134 

XV.    Excitement  at  Dr.  Clifton's,  144 

XVI.    Sharp  Work,  155 

X 

^    XVII.    Important  Errand,  160 

;^ 

, .  XVIII.    Strange  Woman,  167 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Chapter.  Page. 

XIX.  "Ora"  Meredith  Justified  at  Last,  .  185 

XX.    Longing  for  Rest,  •  196 

XXL    Sad  Afflictions,  211 

XXII.  Changing  Events  in  a  Strange  Life,  .  236 

XXIIL    Puzzles  and  Mysteries,  246 

XXIV.   Mysteries  Explained,  256 

XXV    Saratoga,  270 

XXVI.    New  Plans  and  Projects,  277 

XXVIL    The  Excursion,  287 

XXVIII.    Excursion  Continued,  292 

XXIX.    Complicated  Affairs,  299 

XXX.    Forgiven  at  Last,  305 

XXXL    A  Nice  Piece  of  Gossip,  312 

XXXII.    Last  Days  at  Saratoga,  319 

XXXm.    The  "  Richmond  Belle,"  327 

XXXIV.  Edward  Piercelif/s  Arrival,  ....  341 

XXXV.    The  "End"  Drawing  Near,  356 

XXXVL    Last  Meeting,  365 

XXXVII.  Closing  Scenes  with  Sunlight,    .   .   .  377 


ORA,  THE  LOST  WIFE. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

"  Oh,  my  Father,  be  mercifal !" 

The  agonized  prayer  was  wailed  out  in  the  silence 
and  gloom  of  a  lonely  chamber,  and  the  fitful  flashes 
of  light  from  a  grate  where  the  half  smothered  blaze 
played  over  the  black,  smoking  coals,  revealed  but 
partially  the  half  prostrate  form  of  a  lady  from  whose 
lips  the  piteous  lamentation  had  issued. 

She  was  sitting  upon  the  carpet,  her  arms  crossed 
upon  a  chair,  and  her  face  buried  upon  them.  A 
dress  of  deep  black  fitted  closely  about  a  slender 
form,  and  the  loose  sleeve  falling  away,  gave  the 
gleam  of  a  snow  white  arm  through  the  fitful  light; 
but  neck  and  shoulders  were  vailed  in  a  mass  of  long 
dark  hair  that  flowed  over  them  and  swept  the  floor. 
Heavy  sobs  and  low  quivering  moans  followed  that 
audible  cry  for  help  and  pity,  and  then  the  moans 
gradually  ceased,  and  in  a  little  while  she  wept 
softly,  quietly,  as  if  relief  had  come  to  an  over 
burthened  heart,  and  tears  were  gently  washing  away 
its  stinging  bitterness. 
.  (5) 


6 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


^  Half  an  hour  passed,  and  the  bLaze  burned  brighter 
and  more  steadily.  At  last  the  bowed  head  was 
raised,  and  it  was  a  strangely  SAveet  face  that  was 
revealed,  as  with  one  tiny  white  hand  the  lady  swept 
back  the  mass  of  rich  hair  that  had  fallen  over  it 
and  become  wet  with  that  rain  of  agonized  tears. 

The  brow  was  low,  broad  and  full — a  perfect  type 
of  intellectual  beauty.  The  eyes  large  and  shadowy 
— soft  and  lustrous  now  in  the  mist  of  tears  still  hang- 
ing upon  the  long  lashes — in  color  like  a  violet, 
changing  to  black  almost,  with  each  phas^  of  straying 
thought.  The  cheeks  were  round  and  full,  yet  very 
delicate  in  their  contour — the  Kps  full  and  arched 
like  a  bow.  The  chin  delicate,  but  bearing  that  un- 
mistakable stamp  of  firmness  so  plainly  expressed  in 
that  feature  of  the  face.  There  was  a  deep  crimson 
burning  now  upon  the  cheeks,  and  the  dark  lines 
under  the  eyes  spoke  of  suffering.  But,  witb  the 
traces  of  suff'ering  upon  her  face,  you  see  endurance 
and  meekness  in  the  expression  of  the  beautiful 
mouth,  and  the  brov/  and  eyes  are  shadowed  with  a 
high  and  lofty  purpose. 

"  Ah,  me  !"  she  sighed  once  more  aloud,  and  with 
a  mournful,  thrilling  softness  in  her  voice.  "  It  is 
hard,  but  it  is  right ^  I  feel.  Ah,  Edward,  I  may  never 
again  look  up  proudly  in  your  face  and  call  yon 
mine !  That  bright  dream  has  passed  like  a  golden 
flood  of  sunshine  behind  a  cloud  that  may  never 
scatter,  and  henceforth,  unloved  (would  to  God  I 
could  say  unloving)  I  must  meet  life  alone  and  un- 
aided. No,  not  unaided,"  she  added,  and  a  beautiful 
light  broke  over  the  face  she  slowly  lifted  upward, 


ORA,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  #  7 

"for  Thou,  oh  my  Father,  who  hast  seen  into  the 
innermost  depths  of  my  heart  and  knowcth  its  strug- 
gles to  follow  after  the  right,  will  aid  me  through 
life,  even  unto  death — though  all  others  forsake  me." 

The  lady  rose  to  her  feet  with  another  deep  drawn 
sigh.  She  was  not  tall,  but  about  medium  size,  with 
a  form  and  movements  of  indescribable  grace.  A 
watch  rested  in  her  belt;  a  plain,  but  elegant  brooch 
fastened  the  mourning  collar  about  her  white  throat; 
and  a  plain  circlet  of  gold  banded  the  third  finger 
of  her  left  hand.  Her  whole  appearance  was  that 
of  an  elegant,  refined,  and  high-minded  woman; 
struggling  with  grief,  wrestling  with  pain,  but  slowly, 
surely  rising  above  these  influences,  through  love 
and  Faith. 

'  She  took  up  the  poker,  stirred  the  now  glowing 
coals  until  every  corner  of  the  chamber  glowed  with 
the  bright  light  they  sent  out,  and  then  gliding  softly 
to  the  bed,  she  drew  aside  the  heavy  curtains  and 
revealed  the  form  of  a  child  sleeping  upon  the  pillow. 
It  was  a  sweet  and  touching  picture,  and  a  mist  once 
more  gathered  over  the  lady's  eyes  as  she  gazed  down 
upon  the  child  with  its  round,  softly  flushed  cheek 
nestled  in  one  dimpled  hand,  and  the  .light  shining 
rings  of  fair  hair  lying  over  the  forehead.  The  tiny 
lips  were  slightly  parted,  and  the  little  pearly  teeth 
just  peeped  from  beneath  them ;  the  breath  came 
softly  and  regularly  to  the  listening  ear  of  the  mother, 
and  the  long  lashes  sweeping  the  baby's  cheeks, 
seemed  serenely  to  vail  the  clear  orbs  which  on 
opening  you  may  find  as  deep,  clear  and  beautiful 
as  these  were  wont  to  be,  which  are  now  paisty  with 


8  » 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


unshed  tears.  Mother  and  child  are  very  like ;  only 
one  is  a  fairer  tj^pe,  because  in  a  minature  form  of 
beauty. 

Once  more  the  lady  sighed  heavily,  and  gently 
dropped  the  curtains,  gliding  back  to  the  fire,  and 
dropping  her  forehead  upon  the  mantle  piece  as  she 
murmured : 

"  Only  for  her !  only  for  her !  it  would  be  less  hard ! 
So  young,  so  tender,  so  beautiful — oh  God,  could  I 
ever  bear  to  see  her  suflfer.  To  grow  up  obscurely — 
perchance  beneath  the  blighting  shadow  of  suspicion 
— to  come  at  last  to  what  ?  Misery?  Ah,  Heavens, 
let  me  not  think  of  it !  For  myself,  I  should  not  mind 
poverty  and  toil,  but  for  her  I  shrink  from  it  as  from 
a  pestilence.  Have  I  done  right,  to  take  her  from  all 
that  could  brighten  youth  and  life,  to  expose  hex, 
perhaps,  to  suffering,  insult,  everything,  that  the  poor 
and  helpless  have  to  endure?  Oh,  my  heart  is  torn 
with  conflicting  emotions — my  brain  racked  with 
confusion  !  Father  in  heaven  !  I  am  weak  and  pow- 
erless !    Help  me !" 

With  clasped  hands  and  bowed  head  she  prayed 
with  passionate  fervor,  wrestling  with  the  terrible 
forms  of  evil  that  beset  the  pathway  where  she  was 
advancing,  pleading  for  light,  for  strength  and  guid- 
ance, till  once  more  the  shadow  was  lifted,  and  her 
face  grew  calm. 

A  sharp  cry  from  the  bed  broke  the  silence  that 
followed,  and  going  to  it,  the  lady  took  the  child  in 
her  arms  and  sat  down  in  a  rocker  which  she  drew 
up  before  the  grate. 

"  My  baby  woke  soon,"  she  said  gently,  as  she 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


9 


folded  the  long  white  night-dress  over  the  dimpled 
feet.    "  Why  can't  little  Ada  sleep  ?" 

The  child's  eyes  were  wide  open  and  fixed  on  the 
glowing  coals  as  if  in  deep  thought.  For  a  moment 
she  sat  unheeding,  and  then  turned  her  face  suddenly 
to  her  mother. 

"  Mamma !" 

"  Well,  my  darling." 

"  Ada  see  papa  1"  said  the  child,  with  trembling 
eagerness.  The  lady's  cheeks,  lips  and  brow  grew 
ashen,  but  as  if  determined  to  hide  the  spasm  that 
had  struck  a  chill  to  her  heart, from  human  eyes,  she 
choked  down  the  quivering  gasp  that  rose  in  her 
throat,  and  asked  softly: 

"  Ada  saw  papa  ?    Where  ?" 

The  little  creature's  face  lighted  with  an  intelli- 
gence beyond  her  years,  and  closing  the  starry  eyes 
she  laid  one  soft,  dimpled  cheek  in  her  hand,  and  the 
tip  of  a  tiny  finger  over  her  forhead. 

The  lady  smiled  sadly. 

"  Ah,  mamma  understands.  Her  little  girl  dream- 
ed she  saw  papa." 

"Yes,  Ada  jeamed,"  nodded  the  child  delighted 
at  being  so  readily  understood. 

Then  she  added: 

"Mamma,  where  is  papa?  Ada  wants  to  see 
papa." 

Again  the  lady's  lips  grew  even  more  deathly  in 
their  hue,  and  her  frame  shook  as  if  with  an  ague, 
but  now  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Oh,  mamma,"  the  little  one  persisted,  "  Ada 
wants  to  go  to  papa !   Take  Ada  back  to  papa !" 


10 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  Oil,  my  baby,  how  you  torture  me,"  moaned  the 
mother,  hiding  her  white  face  upon  the  child's 
shoulder.    "  Mamma  cannot  take  you  to  papa  !" 

"  But  Ada  wants  to  go  back  to  papa.  Do  take 
Ada  to  papa,"  pleaded  the  little  girl  with  a  quiver- 
ing lip. 

"My  child !"  faltered  the  lady  once  more,  "you 
do  not  know  what  you  ask.  Papa  is  far,  far  away — 
and  oh,  God!  all  unworthy  the  love  of  his  pure  little 
child !  Oh,  Edward !  Edward !  this  is  some  of  the 
fruits  of  your  work !  Not  I  alone  must  suffer,  but 
the  little  one  whose  fond,  pure  love  ought  to  have 
kept  you  true  to  us  both.  Oh,  Heaven  forgive  you ! 
Oh,  God  !  help  me  to  forgive  him  !" 

She  rose  and  placed  the  child  in  the  chair,  and 
with  quickly  beating  heart,  tightly  locked  hands  and 
corrugated  forehead,  paced  the  floor  back  and  forth 
in  strong  agitation.  She  was  too  weak  in  the  heavy 
struggles  she  had  endured,  to  yet  rear  an  impenetra- 
ble barrier  of  firmness  between  herself  and  her  sor- 
row— to  establish  a  self-control. 

Ada's  eyes  followed  her  mother's  form  in  wonder 
and  grief,  forgetful  of  all  save  the  scene  before  her. 
A  great  throb  of  pain  swelled  the  little  heart,  and 
the  lips  parted  with  a  low,  sobbing  cry,  which  brought 
the  mother  back  to  her  side,  and  catching  her  to  her 
bosom,  she  folded  her  there  with  remorseful  tender- 
ness, and  strove  as  only  a  mother  can  to  hush  the 
sobs  that  quivered  through  the  room  with  pitiful 
pathos. 

"  My  baby!  my  precious  baby!  I  had  no  right  to 
make  you  feel  what  I  suffer !    Oh,  I  will  try  with 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


11 


God's  help,  to  shield  you  from  the  consequences  of 
the  step  I  have  taken.  Oh,  surely,  surely,  you  were 
never  destined  to  drink  the  cup  of  sorrow  from  your 
infancy!  God  forbid!  My  baby!  my  baby!  I  will, 
I  must  shield  you  !" 

Thus  murmuring,  with  loving  intensity,  she  kissed 
and  caressed  her,  till  the  little  girl  grew  quiet,  and 
once  more  sat  up  in  her  mother's  lap,  her  tearful 
eyes  fixed  in  childish  wonder  upon  her  pale,  troubled 
face. 

But  gradually  the  little  orbs  grew  heavy  and  the 
curly  head  sank  upon  her  bosom,  while  the  lady  sat 
still  and  mute.  When  slumber  had  completely 
wrapped  the  child's  transient  grief  in  oblivion,  the 
mother  softly  laid  her  upon  the  pillow  once  more, 
and  then  wdth  slow,  thoughtful  mien,  paced  back 
and  forth  through  the  chamber. 

Heavily  the  hours  dragged  along.  The  rain  beat 
against  the  window  panes,  and  the  wind  surged 
drearily  around  the  building  with  heavy,  monotonous 
sound,  but  the  pale,  silent  woman  whose  footfalls 
woke  no  echo  on  the  thick  carpet,  heeded  neither. 
Nor  did  she  heed  the  loud  clang  of  the  town  clock 
as  it  tolled  the  midnight  hour.  Wrapped  in  her 
own  thoughts,  she  never  paused  in  that  slow,  mo- 
notonous walk  until  the  fire  had  died  out  of  the 
grate,  and  the  great  city  grew  quiet,  as  if  for  a  brief 
space  of  time  its  mighty  heart  had  ceased  its  pulsa- 
tions. 

Then,  with  a  cold  shiver,  she  threw  herself  upon 
the  bed  beside  the  sleeping  babe,  and  sank  into  a 
troubled  slumber. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Papa,  Miss  Durand  leaves  us  to-day." 
There  was  a  shade  of  trouble  in  the  clear  brown 
eyes  of  Madeline  Olifton  as  she  communicated  this 
little  piece  of  information  to  her  father,  who  had  just 
taken  his  seat  at  the  breakfast  table  with  the  morning 
papers  beside  him. 

■  The  old  Doctor  looked  across  at  her  with  some 
surprise. 

"  Going  to  leave  to-day,  you  say,  my  love.  What's 
that  for?!' 

Madeline  sighed  a  little  sadly,  but  smiled  quietly 
as  she  returned : 

''To  get  married.  Surely  you  have  not  forgotten 
that  I  told  you  of  the  fact  more  than  two  weeks  ago, 
and  now  the  time  has  come  for  her  to  leave,  and  her 
place  is  still  unsupplied." 

"Bless  my  soul!  I  did  not  remember  anything 
about  it!  Why  didn't  you  remind  me?  Going  to 
marry,  eh !  Well,  well,  I  suppose  we  must  give  her 
up,  as  there  is  no  help  for  it,  seeing  she  is  going  to 
marry.  When  a  woman  fixes  her  mind  upon  that 
important  event  of  her  life,  there's  an  end  to  their 
usefulness." 

''I  declare,  I  do  not  see  what  we  are  to  do  without 
her,"  returned  the  daughter  seriously.  She  seemed 
to  understand  us  so  well,  that  I  am  afraid  we  will 
never  find  her  equal,  and  for  the  children's  sake  more 
than  my  own,  I  regret  it." 
(12) 


ORAj    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


13 


"To  be  sure  it's  bad ;  but  never  mind,  child,  we'll 
soon  get  another,  I  hope  just  as  good,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor cheerfully.  ''I  ought  to  have  attended  to  the 
matter  before,  but  its  not  yet  too  late.    Let's  see." 

He  took  up  one  of  the  papers  and  looked  at  the 
advertising  columns.  After  running  his  eye  down 
them  for  a  few  moments,  he  threw  the  paper  aside 
and  took  up  another.  Here,  after  a  moment's  search, 
his  eye  rested  thoughtfully. 

"I'll  see,  I'll  see,"  he  muttered.  "Perhaps  she 
will  suit." 

"What  is  it,  father?"  asked  Madeline,  pouring  out 
a  second  cup  of  coffee  for  him  as  he  laid  down  the 
paper,  thoughtful  still. 

"An  advertisement  for  a  situation  as* governess. 

It  is  a  lady  at  the  M  House,  who  is  in  want  of 

just  such  a  situation  as  we  have  open.  It  remains  to 
be  seen  if  she  is  just  such  a  person  as  we  want.  I 
will  call  there  to-day." 

So  the  subject  was  dismissed,  and  a  lively  conver- 
sation ensued,  in  which  others  of  the  family  took  a 
part. 

It  was  a  pleasant  circle  that  had  gathered  round 
the  table  in  the  cheerful  little  breakfast  room.  Dr. 
Clifton  himself  was  a  hale,  hearty  man  of  fifty;  very 
kind  and  benevolent  in  his  nature — a  thoughtful, 
tender,  and  generous  friend,  and  a  devoted  father. 
The  happiness  and  welfare  of  his  children  was  above 
all  other  earthly  considerations.  Of  these  he  had 
three;  a  son  of  twenty-five,  who  had  adopted  his 
father's  profession  with  fair  prospects  of  success ;  a 
daughter,  Madeline,  of  nineteen,  wise  and  thoughtful 


14 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


beyond  her  years^  and  the  pet  of  the  household,  Kate, 
who  was  about  twelve,  and  as  great  a  tease  as  ever 
lived,  yet  impulsively  affectionate  and  generous  in 
her  nature.  Other  children  he  had  had,  but  death 
had  cut  them  off  in  their  bloom,  as  it  had  also  his 
gentle  and  noble-minded  wife.  Mrs.  Clifton  had  died 
scarcely  a  year  previous  to  the  introduction  of  the 
family  to  our  readers,  and  the  blow  was  all  the  more 
severe  because  of  the  two  little  orphan  girls  whom 
they  had  adopted,  and  who,  more  than  their  own 
children,  needed  her  tender  care  and  careful  training. 

One  of  these  was  the  only  child  of  a  niece  of  Mrs. 
Clifton's,  who,  in  dying,  begged  that  she  would  re- 
ceive and  rear  her  as  her  own.  The  other  was  the 
daughter  of  an  Italian  lady  around  whom  the  direst 
misfortunes  seemed  to  accumulate  until  death  relieved 
her  of  a  burthen  life  could  not  sustain. 

She  had  married  in  opposition  to  the  will  of  her 
relatives,  and  with  her  proud  young  English  husband, 
had  sought  a  home  in  America,  where  they  might 
establish  more  congenial  relations.  Scarcely  a  year 
passed,  however,  before  a  sudden  misfortune  swept 
away  the  little  fortune  Mr.  Montes  possessed,  and 
shortly  afterward  he  was  stricken  down  with  a  fever 
and  died,  leaving  his  widow  and  infant  alm,os^t  utterly 
destitute. 

Poverty,  toil,  and  illness  combined,  bowed  the  nat- 
urally delicate,  tenderly  reared  woman  to  the  earth, 
and  in  her  sorest  distress,  Doctor  Clifton  had  been 
called  in,  and  his  great  benevolent  heart  became  in- 
terested in  the  helpless  mother  and  child.  Mrs.  Clif- 
ton entered  into  his  generous  plans  for  their  aid  with  a 


OEA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


15 


spirit  of  humane  love  worthy  to  be  classed  with  his,  and 
they  gave  her  a  home  where  she  was  kindly  cared  for. 

But  day  after  day  she  drooped  and  faded  away,  and 
at  last  died  broken-hearted.  She  had  written  to  her 
relatives,  informing  them  of  her  condition,  ,but  the 
cold  reply  they  returned  only  served  to  hasten  the 
termination  of  a  wretched  life,  and  her  discarded, 
helpless  orphan  daughter,  fell  dependent  upon  the 
charity  of  her  mother's  benefactors.  They  did  not 
demur  or  hesitate  to  accept  the  trust  the  wretched 
woman  bequeathed  them  in  dying,  but  with  a  loving 
tenderness  rare  and  beautiful,  Mrs.  Clifton  gathered 
the  little  one  to  her  bosom  and  murmured : 

"I  accept  this  little  babe  in  the  spirit  One  has 
taught  us  who  said,  'Inasmuch  as  you  do  it  unto  one 
of  these  little  ones  ye  do  it  unto  me.'  My  own  will 
not  be  more  tenderly  cared  for  than  this  my  little 
adopted  daughter, — God  helping  me,"  and  Doctor 
Clifton  clasping  the  cold  hand  of  the  dying  mother, 
said  earnestly : 

"My  wife  has  spoken  for  both  of  us." 

So  the  sufferer  was  comforted  in  her  last  moments 
by  the  divine  love  of  two  noble  hearts. 

Mary  Staunton  and  Agnes  Montes  were  nearly  the 
same  age,  Agnes  being  but  a  little  more  than  a  year 
Mary's  senior.  So  the  three  little  girls  ranging  down 
from  Kate,  twelve,  eleven,  and  ten,  were  no  light 
responsibility ;  but  Dr.  Clifton  declared  it  a  great  bless- 
ing, and  he  called  them  his  jewels. 

And  this  was  the  circle  that  gathered  around  the 
breakfast  table  on  the  morning  in  which  we  introduce 
them  to  the  reader. 


16 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Dr.  Clifton,  Jr.,  had  sent  down  an  excuse,  saying 
he  would  breakfast  later,  as  he  was  busy,  and  Miss 
Durand  had  a  slight  headache,  so  that  the  little  ones 
felt  at  liberty  to  break  through  the  restraint  their 
grave  brother  and  governess'  presence  imposed  upon 
them,  and  chattered  like  magpies  when  the  Doctor 
had  thrown  aside  his  paper  to  enjoy  his  coffee  and 
their  society  exclusively. 

''Papa,"  said  Kate,  ''won't  you  come  and  take  us 
out  riding  with  you  this  afternoon?  We  are  not  to 
have  any  lessons  you  know,  and  it  will  be  so  nice. 
Just  see  how  brightly  the  sun  is  shining." 

"Yes,"  put  in  Mary,  "and  see  how  the  rain  drops 
have  frozen  upon  the  trees.  They  look  for  all  the 
world  just  like  little  diamonds  jingling  up  and  down 
on  the  twigs.  Oh,  how  beautiful  the  woods  must 
look!" 

Madeline  glanced  out  of  the  window  through  which 
the  trees  to  which  Mary  alluded  could  be  seen,  flash- 
ing in  magnificent  beauty  beneath  their  load  of  ice- 
jewels;  and  the  Doctor  with  a  genial  smile  upon  the 
animated  and  expectant  faces  of  his  daughter  and 
niece,  turned  a  look  upon  Agnes  who  sat  eating  her 
breakfast  quietly. 

"  What  does  my  Aggie  say?"  he  asked.  "  Does  she 
want  a  holiday  too,  and  a  ride?" 

Without  lifting  her  great  lustrous  black  eyes  from 
her  plate,  the  child  answered  gravely  and  respectfully: 

"The  holiday  I  shall  have  anyway,  as  Miss  Durand 
is  going.  As  for  the  ride,  I  am  not  anxious.  I  shall 
like  either  to  go  or  stay  as  you  please,  sir." 

"But  I  had  rather  see  less  indifference,  my  little 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIPE. 


17 


girl,  and  that  you  should  enjoy  it  as  other  girls  of 
your  age  enjoy  such  things." 

There  was  no  response,  and  Mr,  Clifton  sighed  as 
he  inwardly  compared  the  grave,  singular  character 
of  the  Italian  girl  with  those  of  the  two  laughing, 
happy  children  who  were  merrily  and  joyously  dis- 
cussing the  enjoyment  in  store  for  them. 

''Well,  good  bye,  pets.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  give 
you  all  a  ride  this  afternoon.  Here,  come  kiss  me, 
and  I'm  off." 

Kate  sprang  up  with  a  bound  and  caught  him  round 
the  neck. 

"  Oh,  you  dear,  dear,  good  papa !  I  wont  tease  you 
any  more  for  a  week  I"  and  with  a  dozen  impulsive 
kisses  upon  his  bland,  happy  face,  she  sprang  through 
the  door  and  up  the  stairs  like  an  antelope.  Mary 
came  next  with  loving  and  childlike  grace  clasping 
his  neck  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  and  she  too  went 
up  stairs.  Agnes  rose  quietly.  There  was  no  feeling 
in  the  large  eyes  she  lifted  to  his;  no  loving  pressure 
from  the  red  lips  she  gravely  held  up  for  his  caress. 
But  with  more  tenderness  than  he  had  shown  either 
of  the  others,  he  drew  her  for  a  moment  to  his  bosom 
and  softly  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

''Don't  forget  to  see  about  the  governess  this  morn- 
ing the  first  thing,  papa,"  Madeline  requested  as  she 
came  round  to  his  side,  happy  like  the  others  of  his 
children,  to  receive  the  accustomed  token  of  love  at 
parting. 

"My  daughter,  had  you  not  better  accompany  me 
in  my  search  ?" 

"I  cannot,  indeed,  father.    There  are  so  many 
2 


18 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


things  to  look  after  to-day,  I  cannot  be  spared.  I 
must  not  risk  my  reputation  as  housekeeper,  you 
know,"  she  added  playfully. 

''I  can't  see  how  you  could  in  looking  up  a  gov- 
erness for  your  little  sisters,"  said  the  Doctor  in  reply, 
but  he  added : 

''It  doesn't  matter.  I'll  attend  to  the  affair  myself 
for  you  have  enough  to  do  anyway.  Good  morning, 
my  love."  He  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  pure  clear 
brow  and  was  gone,  while  she  turned  to  her  duties 
with  a  quiet  steadiness  much  at  variance  with  her 
age.  Her  mother's  death  had  wrought  a  wonderful 
change  in  her,  developing  her  at  once  into  a  quiet, 
strong,  almost  self-reliant  woman.  No  one  would 
have  dreamed  she  was  once  as  wild  and  thoughtless 
as  the  heedless,  impulsive  Kate,  whose  rattlebrained 
disposition  gave  her  gentle  elder  sister  so  much  care ; 
and  yet  before  the  great  affliction  which  had  laid  a 
heavy  hand  upon  a  happy  family,  Madeline  was  even 
more  wild  than  she. 

Ah!  how  circumstances  change  or  develop  us. 

Doctor  Clifton  drove  directly  to  the  M  before 

entering  upon  his  round  of  professional  visits.  He 
went  into  the  Clerk's  Office,  examined  the  register, 
and  found  the  name  of  Mrs.  O.  Meredith,  St.  Louis, 
Mo.,  and  sent  up  his  card. 

There  was  a  shade  of  earnest  thought  upon  hia 
brow  as  he  sat  waiting  in  the  Ladies'  Parlor  for  the 
lady  he  had  called  to  see.  His  children's  happiness 
was  of  too  much  moment  to  allow  him  to  place  a 
person  over  them  whose  influence  could  prove  in- 
jurious, and  he  was  aware  of  the  diflBpulty  he  had  to 


ORA,    THE   LOST   WIFE.  19 


meet  in  seeking  for  an  instructresB  now  from  among 
total  strangers.  Even  the  best  judges  of  human  nature 
are  sometimes  deceived,  notwithstanding  evidences 
flattering  or  derogatory  to  a  character  which  they  may 
seek  to  understand.  Who  was  this  lady,  and  what 
would  he  find  her?  He  had  been  induced  to  believe 
that  he  had  found  what  he  desired  from  the  advertise- 
ment. And  yet  what  could  advertisements  say  to 
reveal  the  true  character  of  a  person  ?  He  sat  lost  in 
thought  and  speculation  when  the  door  opened  and  a 
servant  announced : 

"  Mrs.  Meredith,"  and  at  once  retired. 

Doctor  Clifton  rose,  and  the  slender,  dark-robed 
figure  of  the  lady  glided  to  meet  him  with  a  grace  and 
qniet  ease  as  pleasing  to  the  fastidious  eye  of  the  old 
gentleman,  as  was  the  sweet  pale  face  and  clear  soft 
voice  that  greeted  him.  With  a  dignified,  yet  gentle 
manner,  she  accepted  the  seat  he  placed  for  her,  and 
motioned  him  to  resume  his  own,  saying: 

"You  have  seen  my  advertisement?" 

"Yes,  Madam,  I  have  in  this  morning's  paper,  and 
wishing  to  engage  a  person  qualified  as  you  claim  to 
be,  I  have  called  to  see  you  about  it.  I  presume  you 
are  a  widow,"  glancing  at  her  black  dress,  "or  more 
likely  an  orphan,  for  you  look  very  young?" 

"And  suppose  I  should  say  you  were  correct  in 
saying  both,"  she  answered  with  a  sad  smile. 

"Then,  Madam,  I  should  say  you  are  very  unfoi- 
tunate  indeed.    You  are  from  St.  Louis?" 

"Yes,  sir,  directly." 

"You  have  lived  there?" 

"No,  sir,  a  different  part  of  the  world  I  have  called 


20 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


my  home  when  prosperity  and  peace  allowed  m^ 
such  a  haven.  But  circumstances  have  changed  all 
things  in  my  life.  I  am  alone — not  helpless,  I  trust, 
but  self-dependent.  The  past  is  full  of  pain — let  me 
forget  it.  In  the  present  I  only  seek  to  find  the  way 
to  future  advancement  and  usefulness." 

There  was  little  that  could  be  read  in  the  calm,  sad 
face  before  him,  and  the  good  old  Doctor  felt  not  a 
little  puzzled  and  awkward  in  proceeding.  But  after 
a  slight  pause  in  which  he  vainly  tried  to  read  some- 
thing of  the  feelings  passing  within  the  mind  of  the 
strangely  fascinating  woman  before  him,  he  said  in- 
terrogatively: 

"You  of  course  bring  references?" 

She  turned  her  large  eyes  upon  him  with  a  clear, 
full  gaze,  and  answered  frankly: 

"No,  sir,  I  do  not." 

"Why,  Madam!  excuse  me,  but  will  you  allow 
me  to  ask  you  how  you  expect  to  obtain  a  respectable 
situation  without  recommendations?  Perhaps  you 
have  friends  here?  Or — " 

"No,  sir,"  she  interrupted,  with  gentle  dignity. 
"I  have  no  friends  here,  and  I  am  not  surprised  at 
the  astonishment  your  manner  expresses  at  the  step  I 
have  taken  toward  gaining  a  footing  in  a  good  family 
without  references.  But  let  me  tell  you  frankly,  sir, 
that  my  ability  to  perform  any  duties  I  may  under- 
take, and  my  deportment  must  be  my  passport  into 
any  family  where  I  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  gain 
admittance.  My  greatest  misfortune  is  my  loneliness. 
None  need  fear  me.  I  come  from  a  good  family,  and 
till  now  have  never  known  the  need  of  self-depen- 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


21 


dence.  But  as  I  said,  fortunes  change,  and  I  am 
making  my  way  forward  now,  blindly,  perhaps,  but 
earnestly,  trustfully.  If  you  will  try  me  you  will 
never  have  need  to  regret  it.  This  is  all  I  can  say 
for  myself." 

Her  manner  was  peculiarly  earnest  and  frank,  and 
the  face  was  now  lighted  with  a  pure,  truthful  and 
innocent  expression  that  won  the  interest  of  the  man 
before  her  to  an  intense  degree.  But  generous  and 
benevolent  as  he  was.  Doctor  Clifton  was  not  one  to 
work  blindly  where  the  welfare  of  his  children  was  con- 
cerned, and  he  would  at  once  have  cut  short  the  inter- 
view as  useless,  but  for  the  strange  interest  that  drew 
him  toward  the  young  and  desolate  being  before  him. 

"But,  Madam,"  he  said,  "do  you  not  know  you 
have  undertaken  an  almost  impossible  thing  ?  You 
bring  no  references — you  tell  us  nothing  of  yourself  to 
guide  us  to  a  knowledge  of  your  character,  and  yet 
you  ask  us  blindly  to  receive  you  into  the  bosom  of 
our  families  and  place  our  dear  little  ones  in  your 
hands?  Pardon  me,"  he  continued  kindly,  seeing 
her  face  crimson  painfully.  "  I  do  not  speak  to  wound 
you,  but  to  show  you  the  position  you  have  taken,  for 
I  really  do  not  think  you  can  comprehend  the  light  in 
which  you  place  yourself  by  so  extraordinary  a  step. 
You  will  find  your  path  full  of  thorns  and  difficulties 
at  every  turn,  and  be  doomed  at  last  to  disappoint- 
ment— perhaps  worse.  You  will  meet  with  unkind- 
ness  and  rebuff.  I  am  not  trying  to  discourage  you 
in  what  you  may  deem  right,  believe  me.  Madam; 
but  I  say  in  all  kindness  that  you  cannot  get  along 
thus  in  a  suspicious  world." 


22 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


One  small  hand  had  crept  up  over  the  crimson  fore- 
head while  he  was  speaking,  and  now  shaded  the 
eyes  from  which  the  tears  were  dropping  silently. 
The  old  gentleman  looked  at  the  slightly  bowed  figure 
with  compassionate  kindness,  and  slowly  rising  took 
a  step  toward  the  door. 

She  looked  up  then,  and  with  a  little  quiveringges- 
ture,  as  if  self-control  was  beyond  further  efibrt,  said 
appealingly: 

''Oh,  sir,  I  do  know  the  difficulties  you  mention, 
but  for  my  child's  sake  I  would  brave  everything! 
I  have  a  tender,  delicate  daughter  for  whom  I  must 
labor,  and  I  can  endure  anything  for  her  sake.  Is 
there  no  hope  of  proving  my  personal  worth — for  oh, 
sir,  I  do  not  deserve  scorn  or  blame — only  pity,  as 
there  is  a  Father  in  Heaven  who  knows  my  heart  this 
moment!" 

"Poor  woman  !  How  little  you  know  this  world," 
exclaimed  the  Doctor.  "My  child  you  are  a  very 
novice,  and  are  not  fit  for  that  you  would  undertake. 
You  are  but  a  child  at  best,  yourself,  and  have  a  little 
one  you  say  to  care  for.  Now  come  and  sit  down 
here  and  tell  me  frankly  how  you  expect  in  your 
youth  and  beauty  to  meet  a  cold  world,  and  hanging 
a  vail  between  your  life  and  it,  ask  it  to  accept  you 
without  suspicion  and  unkindness.  Everything  will 
go  against  you  in  your  helplessness.  And  if  you  give 
no  confidence,  how  can  you  make  friends?  There 
are  those  who  will  pity  you  because  they  see  you  alone 
and  helpless,  but  they  will  not  trust  you,  because  they 
know  nothing  of  you." 

There  was  such  an  air  of  fatherly  kindness  in  his 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


23 


manner  as  he  seated  himself  in  a  chair  near 
her,  that  her  woman's  heart  went  out  to  him  as  a 
little  child's  in  love  and  confidence.  But  there  was  a 
feeling  of  shame  that. held  her  mute  for  several  mo- 
ments until  the  Doctor's  words  won  from  her  lips  that 
which  she  had  it  in  her  heart  to  tell  him. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "tell  me  something  about  your- 
self, and  if  I  can,  I  will  help  you,  for  I  sincerely  pity 
you,  and  would  gladly  aid  you  out  of  this  unpleasant 
position.  I  cannot,  however,  even  to  spare  your  feel- 
ings, leave  you  blind  to  the  exact  extent  of  the  error 
into  which  you  have  fallen." 

''I  will  tell  you,"  she  said  tremulously.  "I  feel 
your  kindness,  and  see  that  I  am  almost  helpless 
alone.  I  had  never  thought  to  breathe  to  mortal  ear 
what  I  am  going  'to  tell  you,  but  your  age  and  kind- 
ness win  my  confidence.  I  ask  your  assistance,  and 
after  all,  it  is  but  right  that  you  should  know  in 
whom  you  take  an  interest,  painful  as  it  is  to  me  to 
tell  you." 

Then  followed  a  brief  sketch  of  her  past  life,  recited 
sometimes  in  sadness,  sometimes  with  tears  and 
anguish.  The  Doctor  listened  with  rapt  attention,  and 
when  she  had  done,  he  took  her  hand  respectfully. 

Lady  you  have  done  well  to  confide  in  me.  I 
can  and  will  befriend  you,  for  I  know  you  have 
spoken  truthfully.  My  sympathy  you  have  to  an 
entire  degree,  for  your  sufierings  have  been  severe. 
But  now  I  will  leave  you,  and  this  evening  will  call 
and  speak  with  you  further.  Rest  assured  of  my 
assistance,  and  try  to  be  cheerful.  Consider  me  your 
friend." 


24 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"Thank  yon!"  murmured  the  lady  through  her 
tears.  "And  oh,  believe  me,  sir,  you  will  never  find 
me  ungrateful." 

He  pressed  her  hand  kindly  and  took  his  leave, 
and  then  she  went  to  her  room  and  burying  her  face 
among  the  pillows  of  her  couch,  wept  long  and  freely. 

When  evening  came  Doctor  Clifton  returned  ac- 
cording to  promise.  He  looked  a  little  sober  and 
thoughtful,  but  was  kind  and  respectful  in  his  manner. 
Mrs.  Meredith  met  him  with  some  restraint.  She 
had  not  got  over  the  painful  struggle  of  the  morning 
to  reveal  that  which  had  cost  her  so  much.  But  his 
manner  soon  dissipated  it.  There  was  but  one  thing 
that  brought  a  trouble  now  to  both. 

"Mrs.  Meredith,  we  will  give  you  the  situation  we 
have  if  you  find  yourself  competent.  You  are  at  lib- 
erty to  try  it,  and  if  you  fail  to  please  us,  we  will  find 
you  something  else ;  but  what  will  you  do  with  your 
child  ?" 

"  What  will  I  do  with  my  child  ?"  she  repeated. 
"  Why  sir,  can  I  not  have  her  with  me  ?" 

"  But  you  cannot  care  for  a  little  one  and  at  the 
same  time  discharge  school  duties.  Have  you  not 
thought  of  this  before  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  always  thought  to  have  a  nurse  and 
keep  her  near  me.    I  could  not  bear  it  otherwise." 

"There  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  Do  not  under- 
take too  much,  lest  you  fail  in  all.  I  think  your  best 
plan  would  be  to  put  her  out  to  nurse.  There  is  an  old 
lady  living  in  the  same  block  with  ourselves,  who  will 
take  her  if  you  are  willing,  and  as  I  have  known  her 
for  years,  I  can  vouch  for  the  tender  care  the  child 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


25 


will  receive.  I  have  thought  of  everything,  and  in 
my  desire  to  aid  you  have  looked  into  matters  of  most 
importance.    What  do  you  say  to  the  propositign  ?" 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  silent  for  some  moments.  Her 
way  seemed  hard  indeed,  and  she  would  have  instant- 
ly rejected  the  idea  of  parting  with  her  child,  giving 
her  pure,  innocent  charge  into  the  hands  of  strangers  ; 
but  now,  plainer  than  ever  before,  she  saw  the  diflS- 
culties  of  her  way,  and  could  not  reject  the  only  hand 
that  offered  her  assistance,  when  another  might  never 
be  offered  in  the  same  spirit  of  benevolent  good- 
ness. But  ougJit  she  to  let  her  child  go  from  her 
sight?  For  her  only,  she  sought  to  labor;  this  was 
her  sole  motive  in  life.  She  had  expected  difficulties, 
but  she  had  never  intended  them  to  separate  her 
from  her  child,  where  every  hour  she  might  not  watch 
over  and  train  her  mind  as  only  a  mother  can;  and 
every  impulse  rose  up  against  it. 

You  must  make  some  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of 
your  child,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  said  her  benefactor,  tired 
of  the  delay. 

I  know  it,"  she  answered,  ''but  sir,  I  cannot  have 
her  go  out  of  my  sight.  She  is  all  I  have,  and  it  will 
be  the  sole  joy  in  my  lonely  life  to  rear  her  rightly — 
to  preserve  her  spotless,  with  God's  help,  from  the 
world.  How  can  I  answer  for  her  future  if  I  fail  to 
plant  in  her  the  principles  that  are  to  sustain  her 
through  life.  Doctor  Clifton,  a  mother's  eye  should 
never  leave  her  child,  and  I  cannot  let  mine  go  from 
me." 

''But  it  is  better  for  both  yourself  and  little  one, 
and  I  would  not  advise  it,  did  I  not  feel  it  so.  Do 

3 


26 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


not  act  hastily.  I  offer  you  a  situation  on  the  strength 
of  your  confidence,  which  anotlier  would  not  give, 
and  you  will  be  placing  more  obstacles  in  your  own 
way  than  you  are  aware  of,  if  you  reject  it." 

"  Sir,  1  am  fully  aware  of  the  truth  you  have  spoken, 
but  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  keep  her  with  me.  If  you 
cannot  allow  me  to  take  her  with  me  under  your  roof, 
then  I  fear  I  must  look  further,  and  trust  in  God  for 
aid,  for  I  cannot,  indeed  I  cannot  give  up  my  little 
child  to  strangers." 

There  was  a  spice  of  stubbornness,  with  all  his 
goodness,  in  the  old  Doctor's  composition,  and  when 
he  was  willing  to  go  so  far  to  aid  one  as  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  in  regard  to  her,  he  did  not  like  to 
have  the  sole  proposition  he  had  made  thus  decidedly 
rejected.  For  the  mother's  feeling  he  had  due 
respect,  but  he  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  a  little 
child  under  his  roof,  where  three  children  already 
claimed  his  care,  and  honestly  believing  it  better  that 
the  child  should  be  kept  out  of  her  mother's  way,  had 
in  his  own  mind  made  it  a  sort  of  condition  that  she 
should  send  her  oat  to  nurse  or  give  up  the  situation. 

'^Is  this  your  final  decision?"  he  asked  a  little 
coldly. 

''What  can  I  say  more?"  she  returned  with  painful 
sadness  in  her  tone. 

''Ah  life  is  indeed  harder  to  sustain  patiently  than 
I  thought!  The  world  requires  conditions  which  it 
places  between  the  heart's  of  God's  creatures  and 
their  dearest  wishes,  and  I  fear  me  those  who  reject 
them,  will  be  called  ungrateful  and  stubborn.  But 
sir,  to  end  this  matter,  I  will  say  that  I  must  not  put 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


27 


my  little  girl  from  my  own  care,  and  in  doing  my 
duty,  however  hard  may  be  the  path  I  shall  have  to 
tread  and  the  difficulties  to  surmount,  I  shall  look  to 
God  for  help,  and  do  believe  that  I  shall  not  look  in 
vain." 

You  are  blindly  turning  your  face  from  one  of 
Ilis  especial  favors,  if  you  could  but  see  it,"  answer- 
ed the  Doctor  somewhat  impatiently.  1  am  anxious 
and  ready  to  assist  you,  and  you  refuse  it.  I  hope  you 
will  not  have  cause  to  regret  the  step  you  are  taking, 
but  I  much  fear  you  will.  Remember  this,  however, 
and  it  is  all  that  I  can  say  now ;  you  will  find  that 
my  experience  in  the  world  has  rendered  me  a  correct 
judge  of  what  is  before  you  in  your  position,  and 
when  you  too,  through  that  experience,  have  gained 
the  knowledge  I  have,  and  can  make  up  your  mind  to 
accept  my  advice  and  assistance,  I  am  still  willing  to 
befriend  jon.  Till  then,  I  leave  you  to  experiment. 
I  may  not  give  you  the  situation  you  have  open  for 
you  now,"  he  added,  ''for  it  must  be  filled  soon,  and 
your  rejection  renders  it  necessary  I  should  look 
further.    There  may  be  some  other  way,  however." 

He  bowed  and  turned  to  go,  leaving  her  standing 
near  the  middle  of  the  room  with  a  storm  at  heart  be-  ^ 
yond  his  keenest  preception.  She  could  not  seQ  her 
way  clearly,  or  make  a  distinction  between  accepting 
or  rejecting  finally,  for  her  child's  sake.  And  during 
the  struggle,  he  passed  out  and  was  gone. 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done!"  she  moaned.  "He 
would  have  been  my  friend,  and  I  could  have  trusted 
him,  but  now  I  haye  sent  him  from  me,  perhaps  feel- 
ing that  all  his  kindly  interest  was  wasted,  and  may 


28 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


never  again  find  one  who  will  be  the  same  friend  to  a 
lonely  stranger  he  would  have  been  !  My  Father  in 
mercy  guide  me,  for  oh,  indeed  I  am  blind !" 

Slowly  she  groped  her  way  back  to  her  chamber, 
in  such  an  agony  of  mind  as  scarcely  to  be  able  to 
stand.  Little  Ada  lay  sobbing  bitterly  upon  the  bed, 
and  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  the  sharp  pain  she 
endured,  came  with  her  endeavors  to  sooth  her.  But 
after  a  time  when  the  child  again  slept,  all  her  doubts 
fears  and  struggles  came  back,  and  as  on  the  night 
previous,  she  paced  her  room  in  a  wild  conflict  of 
feeling  till  the  gray  dawn  crept  in  at  the  window,  and 
she  was  compelled  from  exhaustion  to  lie  down. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  WEEK  had  passed  away,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  was 
almost  dispairing.  .She  could  not  go  out  and  leave 
her  little  girl,  and  the  answers  to  her  advertisement 
had  been  discouraging.  She  found  all  that  Doctor 
Clifton  had  warned  her  of,  painfull}''  true.  Some 
were  cold  and  reserved,  leaving  her  at  once  after  a 
few  inquiries — some  were  quizzi-cal  and  openly  sus- 
picious— which  was  an  almost  intolerable  torture  to  a 
nature  like  hers.  Knowing  her  own  integrity,  and 
purity  of  purpose,  and  feeling  the  great  willingness  at 
heart  to  bear  all  things  for  the  sake  of  right,  it  was  a 
sore  trial  to  be  looked  upon  as  the  world  looked  on 
her,  and  suspected  of  evil  she  might  not  combat  with- 
out exposure  of  her  most  sacred  feelings,  and  the  past 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


29 


which  she  was  seeking  so  jealously  to  hide.  More 
had  to  be  borne  than  she  had  even  dreamed,  with  lier 
worst  fears  alive,  and  she  began  to  doubt  the  pro- 
priety of  the  step  she  had  taken  in  rejecting  Doctor 
Clifton's  conditionts.  Of  the  two  alternatives,  she 
found  tliis  the  bitterest  by  far,  for  now  crept  in  the 
terrible  fear  that  her  means  would  all  be  exhausted 
before  she  could  gain  a  situation,  and  then  what  could 
she  do  with  her  child  to  depend  on  her?  She  would 
have  to  go  forth  into  the  world,  and  perhaps  see  the 
little  creature  for  whom  she  was  suffering  all  this  pain 
and  anxiety,  deprived  of  even  the  commonest  necesi- 
ties  of  life,  and  be  unable  to  supply  her.  The  future 
seemed  very  dark  and  hopeless,  —  her  strength  was 
fast  failing  beneath  the  trial,  and  still  she  knew  not 
what  to  do,  or  how  to  act.  Care  and  loss  of  rest 
occasioned  by  her  anxiety,  was  making  terrible  in 
roads  on  her  health,  and  there  was  also  a  dread  of 
personal  illness  added  to  her  other  troubles. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  when  she  was  almost 
ready  to  sink  down  helpless  and  despairing,  Doctor 
Clifton  came  back.  His  kind  heart  relented  when  he 
thought  of  her  distress  and  loneliness,  and  the  memo- 
ry of  her  sweet  young  face  lived  too  vividly  in  his  heart 
for  him  to  abandon  her  mercilessly  to  the  dangers 
of  a  world  of  which  she  had  so  little  experience. 
After  all  it  was  but  natural  that  she  should  cling  to 
her  child,  and  while  he  felt  annoyed  at  the  idea  of 
bringing  them  both  into  his  house,  he  admired  the 
spirit  of  devoted  love  that  had  made  her  refuse  to  part 
with  the  little  one;  and  during  a  week's  time  to  re- 
flect upon  the  matter,  had  allowed  himself  to  decide 


30 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


in  her  fa^or,  provided  she  had  been  unsuccessful  in 
making  other  arrangements.  His  mind  had  been 
sorely  disturbed  about  her,  and  after  making  this 
decision,  he  felt  much  better  pleased  with  himself  than 
he  had  done  since  he  left  her.  And  while  under  the 
influence  of  the  feeling,  he  went  back  to  the  hotel  to 
inquire  about  her.  Shew^as  still  there,  they  informed 
him,  and  he  sent  up  his  card. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  as  she  appeared,  looking  worn  and 
ill.  "  You  have  found  it  as  I  told  you,  I  see  by  your 
face.  I  declare,  you  are  nearly  ill — your  hand  is 
burning  with  fever!    How  do  you  get  on?" 

"Badly,"  she  answered  drearily. 

"  It  is  even  worse  than  you  told  me,  and  my  strength 
is  less  to  bear  it  than  I  thought,  though  my  will  is 
unchanged.  Oh,  I  shall  be  ill,  and  then  wdiat  wih 
become  of  Ada?" 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  returned  pityingly  re- 
garding the  shaking,  suffering  form  of  the  woman. 
"I  have  thought  the  matter  over,  and  have  spoken 
with  my  daughter  about  you.  If  you  wish  to  come, 
you  may  bring  your  child,  and  we  will  see  how  things 
can  be  arranged." 

With  a  glad  cry  she  caught  his  hand  to  her  Hps 
and  pressed  it  as  a  little  child  might  have  done.  His 
eyes  filled  instantly  with  tears  and  the  sight  of  her 
grateful  face  brought  a  hearty  self  reproach 

"What  a  cruel  old  wM'etch  I  have  been  to  let  you 
suffer  so!"  he  said  wiping  his  face.  "But  come,  I 
will  take  you  home  with  me,  and  make  up  for  it  in 
future.    Will  you  go  with  me  now^?" 

"  Willingly,"  she  returned  brokenly. 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


31 


"Oh,  sir,  may  Heaven  bless  you!  I  was  almost 
ready  to  doubt  God's  goodness,  but  you  have  proved 
that  it  is  with  me  still,  even  in  my  weakness." 

She  went  up  stairs  to  get  her  things,  and  under  the 
influence  of  the  generous  impulses  at  work  in  his 
heart  he  went  out  to  the  office  and  paid  her  bill, 
ordered  her  baggage  sent  to  his  residence,  and  then 
awaited  her  in  the  Ladies'  Parlor. 

"What  a  singular  interest  this  woman  excites  in 
me,"  he  mused  as  he  waited.  "Idontknowwhy  itis, 
but  I  suppose  its  her  youth  and  helplessness.  And 
then  she  is  so  grateful !  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  help 
the  little  thing.  But  bless  me,  she  is  a  very  child, 
and  I  almost  think  I  am  a  fool  to  place  her  in  such  a 
position  in  my  family.  What  will  she  do  with  those 
wild  girls  !  But  never  mind, we'll  see."  And  so  dis- 
missing the  perplexities  of  the  present  from  his  mind, 
the  Doctor  met  Mrs.  M.eredith  when  she  came  down, 
and  conducted  her  to  his  carriage  which  was  waiting, 
telling  her  that  her  baggage  would  be  sent  after  them, 
and  he  would  take  her  home  at  once. 

A  strange,  fatherly  sort  of  feeling  crept  into  the 
good  old  gentleman's  heart  as  he  seated  the  lady 
by  his  side  and  drove  off.  Then  little  Ada's  pure 
eyes  looking  straight  to  his  with  their  innocent  incjuir- 
ing  gaze,  stirred  a  yearning  tenderness  he  could  not 
have  understood',  had  he  not  been  a  father.  With 
that  same  amotion  of  tenderness,  he  had  a  thousand 
times  lifted  his  own  chihlren  to  his  bosom,  and  now. 
with  an  irrisistable  impulse,  he  bent  his  head  to  print 
a  soft  kiss  on  the  upturned  brow,  and  was  rewarded 
by  a  bri^rht,  confiding  smile  that  drew  him  strongly 


32 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE 


toward  the  little  innocent  being.  He  now  began  to 
wonder  that  a  feeling  of  repugnance  had  ever  existed 
against  the  idea  of  re6eiving  her  in  his  home;  but  at 
the  same  time  his  heart  was  relenting  and  swelling 
with  such  tenderness  his  judgment  told  him  that  he 
was  acting  unwisely  in  placing  a  governess  over  his 
children  who  had  a  child  of  her  own  to  look  after  and 
claim  her  time. 

On  the  way,  he  spoke  of  the  different  members  of 
his  family  in  a  manner  which  gave  her  some  insight 
into  their  characters.  Mrs.  Meredith  listened  with 
great  attention,  and  asked  a  number  of  questions 
which  betrayed  that  interest  to  her  employer,  and 
which  pleased  him  still  more,  since  it  spoke  well  for 
her  in  the  duties  that  waited  her  in  the  future. 

Madeline  met  them  with  a  kind,  easy  grace  that 
warmed  her  heart  toward  her  at  once,  and  Mrs. 
Meredith's  first  thought,  as  she  looked  into  her  sweet, 
quiet  face  was:  ''We  shall  be  friends,  at  least."  The 
children  v/ere  shy  and  curious  with  the  exception  of 
Agnes,  who  after  a  slight  nod  when  Dr.  Clifton  pre- 
sented her  to  her  future  governess,  quietly  seated  her- 
self in  a  corner  and  seemed  to  pay  no  further  atten- 
tion. Mary,  after  a  shy  glance  into  the  pale  sweet 
face  of  the  mother,  carried  off  the  child  to  a  sofa 
where  they  soon  made  friends  and  began  a  regular 
game  of  romps  ;  Kate  was  more  than  usually  quiet. 

After  a  moment,  Madeline  excused  herself  and  went 
out,  but  soon  returned  with  a  girl  who  she  said 
would  show  her  up  to  her  room.  Ora,  as  we  love  to 
call  our  heroine,  rose  and  taking  Ada  from  Mary  with 
a  winning  smile  which  warmed  the  little  girl's  heart, 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


33 


went  up  stairs,  whither  in  a  short  time  Madeline  fol- 
lowed. There  was  a  look  in  the  blue  eyes  of  the 
stranger  as  she  went  out,  that  haunted  the  warm- 
hearted maiden,  and  her  extreme  youth  and  loneliness, 
touched  her  deeply.  Her  father  had  said  nothing  to 
her  in  regard  to  the  lady's  history  except  that  she 
was  of  a  good  family,  and  that  misfortune  had  thrown 
her  upon  her  own  exertions  for  support.  This  was 
enough.  Beyond,  everything  was  sacred  to  herself 
unless  she  chose  to  confide  in  her ;  but  she  was  sor- 
rowing, and  needed  sympathy,  and  at  the  risk  of  being 
thought  intrusive,  she  would  go  up  to  her  room. 

The  door  stood  very  slightly  ajar,  and  gently  push- 
ing it  back,  Madeline  discovered  Mrs.  Meredith  in  a 
far  corner  of  the  room  with  her  face  buried  in  the 
Bofa,  while  smothered  sobs,  and  low  broken  murmurs 
stirred  the  silence  of  the  chamber.  Ada  was  clasped 
to  her  bosom  with  her  right  arm,  her  little  wandering 
eyes  brimming  with  tears,  her  lips  quivering  with 
distress.  The  picture  was  too  touching  for  quiet  con 
templation.  With  a  throbbing  heart  the  gentle  girl 
glided  to  her  side  and  passed  her  arm  about  the  slight 
form  of  the  kneeling  woman. 

''Forgive  me  if  I  intrude,"  she  said  with  a  voice 
laden  with  loving  sympathy,  "but  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  you  looking  so  distressed  and  lonely.  Be  com- 
forted.   You  shall  not  feel  the  need  of  friends  here." 

Ora  lifted  her  head  and  fixed  her  brimming  eyes 
on  the  sweet  girlish  face.  There  was  a  glad  light  in 
them  that  the  tears  could  not  hide,  and  her  voice  was 
broken  and  tremulous  as  she  replied : 

''You  mistake  me.    I  do  not  weep  for  distress, 


34 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


but  for  thankfulness.  My  heart  is  so  full  at  this  unex- 
pected blessing,  that  words  are  powerless  to  express 
what  I  feel.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  alone 
and  friendless,  and  to  meet  with  disappointment  till 
dispair  has  well  nigh  paralyzed  every  faculty.  Per- 
haps I  am  not  fit  for  what  I  have  undertaken ;  but  God 
knoweth  my  will  is  good,  my  motives  pure,  and  with 
His  aid,  I  will  try  to  merit  your  kindness.  May  He 
l)less  you  and  your  kind  father  as  you  deserve.  I  had 
not  hoped  for  such  a  haven  of  rest  as  this." 

I  trust  you  may  find  it  so,  indeed,"  replied  Made- 
line gently.  "  But  even  here  you  will  doubtless  find 
trials.  We  are  not  faultless,  and  you  will  remember 
that  every  picture  has  its  light  and  shade.  But  we 
do  hope  j^ou  will  find  more  of  light  than  shadow  here. 
We  will  try  to  make  you  happy  if  we  can." 

"Thank  you — you  are  too  good,"  murmured  Ora 
thoroughly  unnerved.  "Do  not  think  me  altogeth-er 
weak  and  babyish,"  she  added  after  a  short  pause. 
"I  have  suffered  so  much  anxiety  lately,  that  this 
relief  has  entirely  overcome  me.  I  shall  soon  be  my- 
self again." 

Just  then  a  servant  was  heard  in  the  hall  with  her 
trunks,  and  Ora  hastily  arose  to  her  feet  and  went 
toward  the  glass  to  brush  her  hair  which  had  fallen  in 
disorder  about  her  flushed  face.  Madeline  went  for- 
ward and  saw  the  trunks  brought  and  deposited  in 
the  room,  and  then  coming  back  to  where  Ora  stood, 
she  said  earnestly : 

"You  must  try  to  feel  at  home  and  satisfied  with 
us,  and  always  look  upon  me  as  a  friend.  Can  I  do 
anything  for  you  ?" 


OKA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


35 


^'NotliiDg,  thank  you." 

Ora  had  agaiu  to  struggle  with  her  tears  and  did 
not  dare  trust  herself  to  speak  further.  But  she 
clasped  the  small  white  hand  of  the  daughter  as  she 
had  clasped  the  father's,  and  pressed  a  grateful  kiss 
upon  it.  Madeline's  eyes  filled  as  she  released  it,  and 
then  hastened  from  the  room  lest  she  too  should  lose  all 
Belf  control.  A  pretty,  tidy  Irish  girl  came  in  soon, 
and  said  Dr.  Clifton  had  sent  her  to  take  care  of  baby, 
and  Ora  unpacked  her  trunk  to  get  at  the  little  one's 
wardrobe.  The  girl  took  the  white  frock  handed  out, 
and  dressed  the  child  while  the  lady  replaced  the 
dress  she  wore,  with  an  elegant  black  bombazine  and 
crape  collar,  adding  no  ornaments  than  those  she 
always  wore. 

Madeline  came  in  herself  when  the  tea  bell  rang, 
and  the  two  ladies  descended  the  stairs  together. 

Here  the  whole  family  now  assembled,  including 
Mr.  Harry  Clifton  whose  portrait  we  shall  attempt  to 
draw  for  the  reader. 

When  Mrs'.  Meredith  entered  with  Madeline,  he 
was  stretched  at  full  length  upon  the  sola,  his  broad 
white  forehead  supported  by  a  hand,  white  and  deli- 
cate as  a  woman's,  and  on  one  finger  of  which  sparkled 
I  single  diamond.  His  hair  was  very  profuse  and 
curling  round  his  head  in  beautiful  glossy  rings. 
His  browns  were  high,  arched  and  very  dark — his  eves 
in  color  like  his  sister's—a  deep  rich  brown — changing 
to  a  cold,  steely  gray  in  nipments  of  passion.  His 
nose  was  slightly  aquiline.,  rather  prominent,  and 
betrayed  the  liigh  proud  nature  in  the  thin,  swelling 
nostrils,  and  the  fine  lines  of  the  mouth.    The  cheek 


36 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


bones  rose  high  and  firm  in  their  outline,  the  ch^n 
heavy,  the  lips  liill,  the  teeth  glitteringly  white  and 
maryelously  beautiful. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  only  for  an  instant  to  the  face  of 
the  young  governess  as  she  entered  and  was  pre- 
sented by  Dr.  Clifton,  with  one  keen,  penetrating 
glance  that  cut  her  like  a  knife,  and  then  seemed 
totally  to  ignore  her  presence. 

He  was  evidently  moody,  and  took  his  seat  at  the 
table  in  utter  silence.  The  few  advances  made  by  his 
father  to  open  a  conversation,  met  with  no  response 
except  merely  a  respectful  acknowledgment  without 
warmth.  And  knowing  his  son's  peculiar  moods,  the 
old  gentleman  abandoned  the  effort. 

Ora  was  very  ill  at  ease.  A  strange  nervous  dread 
made  her  quiver  till  she  almost  spilled  her  tea  in  lift 
ing  the  cup  to  her  lips.  But  she  exerted  herself 
bravely  to  hide  her  constraint,  and  converse  in  an 
ordinary  tone  of  voice,  and  with  an  easy,  self-possessed 
manner  with  Madeline  and  her  father. 

Mary  and  Kate  were  each  content  to  eat  in  silence 
Agnes  being  usually  quiet,  became  no  object  of  atten 
tion  from  taciturnity  now.  But  two  or  three  times 
during  the  meal,  Harry  Clifton,whose  keen  eyes  took  in 
everything  without  seeming  to,  discovered  a  strangely 
baleful  light  in  the  girl's  black  eyes,  and  her  red  lip 
curve  with  a  scornful  smile.  For  an  instant  his  own 
face  lighted  with  a  half  defined  expression  of  intelli- 
gent interpretation  of  the  child's  thoughts — but  in  an 
instant  afterward,  he  appeared  absorbed  in  thought. 

Before  the  others  had  done,  he  gravely  rose  and  ex- 
cusing himself  passed  from  the  room  to  his  stufly. 


OKA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


37 


No  comments  were  made  upon  him  in  his  absence, 
a^d  Ora  concluded  the  grave,  almost  severe  silence  he 
maintained,  to  be  too  natural  to  excite  remark.  As 
soon  as  she  could,  she  too  excused  herself  on  the  plea 
of  weariness  and  attention  to  her  little  girl — and  went 
to  her  room. 

That  night  long  after  the  family  retired,  she  lay 
thinking  of  her  new  position,  her  duties,  and  pain- 
fully reviewing  her  abilities,  to  judge  if  she  might 
fulfill  them.  A  thousand  misgivings  tormented  her, 
and  she  wondered  if  they  would  be  kind  and  patient 
with  her  amid  diflSculties.  Would  Dr.  Clifton  remain 
her  friend — would  Madeline  remain  the  kind,  gentle, 
thoughtful  being  she  had  proved  herself  in  the  outset 
of  her  new  career  ?  Would  the  children  ever  learn  to 
love  her?  Here  again  misgivings  intruded  upon  her 
thoughts.  Little  fear  was  there  for  Mary  Staunton. 
A  look  into  the  child's  eyes  proved  her  heart  hers 
already,  but  she  was  not  so  sure  of  Kate  and  Agnes. 
And  well  she  knew  that  everything  depended  upon 
the  successful  control  of  her  pupils — and  -the  best  con- 
trol, is  ever  through  love.  Could  she  but  win  their 
love  and  confidence  she  had  no  fears  for  the  future. 
Otherwise,  much  might  be  dreaded. 

Thus  pondering,  she  at  length  fell  asleep  with  her 
little  daughter's  bright  head  nestling  upon  her  bosom. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


A  WEEK  passed  away  ere  Ora  Meredith  felt  herscli 
fairl}^  installed  in  her  new  home,  notwithstanding  the 
kindness  of  its  members.  It  took  that  length  of  time 
to  wear  away  the  strangeness  and  newness  of  things 
around  her.  Madeline's  kindness  and  sympathy  grew 
with  her  acquaintance  of  the  young  governess,  and 
both  Mary  and  Kate  were  in  three  days  her  declared 
friends.  Agnes  held  aloof  coldly,  as  she  ever  did 
from  friends  or  strangers.  Flarry  Clifton  she  had 
not  seen  more  than  two  or  three  times,  and  the  old 
gentleman,  though  much  abroad,  was  almost  as  in- 
visible at  home  except  when  at  his  meals.  Then  he 
was  kind,  genial  and  almost  fatherly  in  his  manner. 
His  prepossession  in  her  favor  evidently  increased, 
and  things  bade  fair  to  run  smoothly.  What  a  sense 
of  rest  and  peace  crept  into  the  weary  woman's  heart 
as  she  realized  it.  Once  used  to  the  regular  routine 
of  affairs,  she  was  now  beginning  to  feel  the  real 
sweetness  of  rest  and  security. 

There  was  but  one  thing  that  really  disturbed  her, 
and  prevented  heart  and  mind  from  falling  into  that 
calm  which  generally  follows  excitement  and  unrest* 
This  was  a  knowledge  of  Agnes'  dislike.  She  had 
seized  every  opportunity  to  win  the  child  to  her,  but 
beneath  her  cold  reserve,  lurked  a  stronger  barrier 
in  the  shape  of  a  growing  hatred.  She  had  studied 
her  carefully,  tried  to  win  attention,  but  found  hei 
efforts  fruitless  in  every  respect.  The  little  creature 
(38) 


oil  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


39 


was  an  enigma,  and  she  had  no  key  to  solve  it. 
Here  was  a  seed  for  future  trouble,  and  unless  she 
could  master  it,  and  plant  it  in  proper  soil  she  felt 
that  it  would  germinate  for  evil  purposes. 

One  morning  seated  at  her  desk  in  the  school- 
room, she  observed  that  Agnes  sat  idly  twirling  the 
leaves  of  her  book,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  branches 
of  a  tree  that  stood  outside  the  window.  For  some 
time  she  allowed  her  to  remain  absorbed  in  her  own 
fancies,  and  then  spoke  to  her  gently. 

"Agnes  you  are  not  studying." 

"  I  know  it,"  without  turning  her  head, 

"Well,  why  not?" 

"Because  I  do  not  choose  to." 

"  Agnes !"  Ora^s  voice  spoke  the  pain  she  felt. 
She  was  not  astonished.  She  knew  that  sooner  or 
later  there  must  be  war  between  them.  The  time 
had  come.    One  or  the  other  must  conquer. 

The  girl  turned  her  brilliant  eyes  upon  the  pale 
sad  face  of  her  governess  with  an  expression  no 
child  should  ever  wear.  It  was  full  of  insolent 
scorn,  hate  and  defiance. 

"  Come  to  me,"  said  Ora  quieting  her  tone  to  one 
of  calm  authority. 

The  girl  did  not  heed  or  move,  but  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  her  face. 

"  Will  you?" 

"No." 

"  Agnes !" 

A  low  laugh  responded.  Now  the  blue  eyes  cf 
the  governess  grew  dark,  almost  black  with  intense 
determination.    They  met  the  fiiery  black  orbs  of  the 


40 


OB  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


pupil  in  a  steady  gaze,  and  saw  burning  there  all  the 
stronger,  more  evil  passions  of  her  strange  nature. 
She  knew  that  her  whole  soul  was  roused  against  her, 
and  she  must  subdue  it,  and  spoke  with  the  resolve 
thrilling  through  her  voice. 

"  Agnes,  you  must  obey  me,  or  I  must  punish  you. 
Come  to  me." 

"I  will  not!  you  dare  not  touch  me!"  Ora  rose 
and  crossed  the  room  quickly,  but  with  a  quiet,  even 
step.  The  tumultuous  feelings  of  pain  and  anger 
that  rose  in  her  heart  she  put  down  with  a  mighty 
effort,  that  she  might  bend  every  energy  to  one  pur- 
pose with  steady  precision. 

Agnes'  eyes  blazed,  and  she  looked  like  a  young 
tigress  ready  to  spring  upon  its  prey  as  her  governess 
approached  her;  but  there  was  something  in  the 
steady  glance  of  the  blue  eyes  bent  on  hers,  that 
checked  her  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Do  not  touch  me,"  she  gasped  passionately. 

"I  will  call  Mr.  Clifton." 

"What  is  all  this?"  spoke  Harry  Clifton  at  the 
door.  His  study  adjoined  the  schoolroom,  and  the 
door  being  slightly  ajar,  the  voices  had  attracted  him. 
Quick  as  thought  Agnes  sprang  past  Ora's  outstretch- 
ed hand  before  it  touched  her  shoulder,  and  stood  by 
the  young  physician. 

"Do  not  let  that  woman  touch  me !  If  she  does,  1 
shall  murder  her!" 

Ora  turned  to  face  the  intruder,  and  met  a  glance 
that  exasperated  her.  There  was  no  surprise  in  his 
face.  Only  a  quiet,  half  triumphant  smile  softly 
creeping  about  his  mouth,  and  yet  the  brilliant  eyes 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


41 


had  a  slight  look  of  inquiry.  She  seemed  to  feel 
their  meaning.  They  said.  "  Has  this  pale,  delicate 
little  woman  enough  of  nerve  and  stamina  in  her  to 
put  down  this  young  tornado  of  rebellion  ?  Let  us 
see." 

"  Mr.  Clifton,  have  you  come  here  to  interfere  with 
my  authority,  or  support  it?"  she  asked  gazing 
straight  into  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  need  support  ?"  he  asked  without  a  change 
of  expression. 

"  No  sir,"  decidedly,  "  If  you  come  not  to  inter- 
fere, leave  me  to  accomplish  my  own  purposes. 
Miss  Montes  rebels  against  my  authority.  I  desire 
to,  and  must,  establish  it  firmly  for  her  sake  and  my 
own — for  the  sake  of  my  other  pupils — the  duty  I 
owe  your  family  in  the  position  I  hold.  Have  you 
anything  to  say  ?" 

There  was  a  flash  of  feeling  on  his  handsome  face 
for  one  instant,  but  the  nature  of  that  feeling  could 
not  be  determined,  it  faded  so  quicklj.  He  answered 
by  a  question. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  punish  her?" 

"Yes." 

"  Why?" 

"Because  I  have  told  her  she  must  obey  me,  or  I 
should  have  to  punish  her.  I  have  passed  my  word. 
It  cannot  be  broken." 

"  You  are  determined  to  use  severe  measures?" 

"  Mr.  Clifton."  Ora  had  to  struggle  hard  to  main- 
tain her  steadiness  and  quiet  tone  of  voice.  "I wish 
to  know  distinctly  if  you  came  here  to  interfere  with 
me." 

4 


42  ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE 


"  Supposing  I  have,  what  then  ?"  his  tone  was  al 
most  insolent. 

Then  sir,  I  must  say  that  you  are  very  wrong  in 
the  course  you  are  taking.  If  I  cannot  control  my  pu- 
pils entirely  as  I  desire,  how  am  I  to  gain  over  them 
a  proper  influence  for  good?  Understand  me,  sir, 
T  claim  this  as  my  domain.  I  must  be  mistress  here 
or  nothing.  Allow  me  to  judge  of  the  nature  of  the 
ofi*ences  I  am  called  upon  to  punish,  and  to  punish 
according  to  my  judgment.  This  I  must  exact,  or 
resign  my  place." 

She  had  said  more  under  the  spur  of  exasperated " 
feeling,  than  she  knew  to  be  prudent,  but  the  words 
had  gone  forth  and  she  would  bravely  abide  the  re- 
sult. She  felt  herself  right,  and  no  power  could 
shake  her  purpose.  Her  position  must  be  firmly  » 
established  or  destroyed  forever.  She  would  stand 
her  ground  and  endeavor  to  gain  tJie  field.  He 
was  regarding  her  with  an  unreadable  expression, 
and  stood  silent  for  a  moment  after  she  had  done 
speaking.  Then  he  bowed  frigidly,  saying  in  cold, 
measured  tones. 

"  Certainly,  madam,  I  have  no  right  to  interfere 
with  your  authority  here,  and  of  course  must  allow 
that  you  know  how  to  use  it.  May  I  ask,  however, 
that  you  will  fully  explain  the  difficulty  ?" 

Ora  explained  brie%,  and  with  dignity.  He  lis- 
tened almost  respectfully  to  her  clear  statement,  then 
with  a  second  bow  frigid  as  the  first,  turned  upon  his 
heel  and  quitted  the  room,  saying  simplv : 

"  I  leave  her  to  your  tender  mercies." 

She  heard  him  enter  his  room,  whistling  as  if 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


43 


nothing  had  occurred.  Her  blood  was  boiling  with 
indignation,  until  her  cheeks  were  stained  crimson 
with  the  tide,  but  her  quiet,  firm  manner  underwent 
no  change,  as  she  again  faced  the  rebellious  girl  who 
had  caused  this  commotion.  The  child's  eyes  still 
glared  defiance,  even  though  she  had  lost  her  champ- 
ion. It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  -were 
strung  by  a  stronger  purpose — the  child  or  the  wo- 
man. But  Ora  had  gained  one  victory.  She  took 
courage  for  the  second. 

"  Agnes,  I  am  very  sorry  to  punish  you,"  she  began 
gently.  "  But  you  have  disobeyed  me,  defied  my  au- 
thority— sought  to  enlist  others  in  your  favor  against 
me,  and,  combining  the  whole,  leave  me  to  sum  up  a 
most  serious  offence.  I  have  told  you  I  should  pun- 
ish you,  and  I  must  do  it,  although  it  pains  me  deep- 
ly. Indeed  the  punishment  is  as  severe  for  me,  as  I 
can  possibly  make  it  for  you,  for  I  had  hoped  better 
things  of  you.  I  have  tried  to  make  you  love  me, 
and  through  your  love,  to  win  you  gently  to  your 
duties,  helping  you  happily  through  them.  Tou  put 
it  out  of  my  power  by  ungrounded  dielike.  I  cannot 
conceive  why  you  should  dislike  or  wish  to  wound 
me.  When  I  think  how  much  your  friends  will  be 
pained  at  this,  it  pains  me  doubly ;  and  when  I  remem- 
ber that  you  are  motherless,  the  pam  increases  till  it 
becomes  a  sore  and  bitter  trial  to  punish  you.  Yet 
I  must  do  it,  because  you  have  disobeyed  me,  and  I 
have  said  I  would  punish  you.'' 

Agnes'  blazing  eyes  were  obgcured  by  a  mist. 
Had  the  earnest  tones  and  sincere  manner  of  her 
teacher  reached  a  place  in  that  strange,  unchildlike 


44 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


heart?  She  felt  the  supremacy  of  the  will  she  had 
set  herself  up  against,  as  her  subdued  manner  indi- 
cated, but  she  was  not  conquered.  She  turned  her 
back  upon  her,  partly  in  defiance,  partly  to  hide  the 
tears  she  could  not  repress. 

Ora  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  resistingly  to- 
ward her  desk. 

"  Now  Agnes,  I  shall  banish  you  from  the  school- 
room for  the  remainder  of  the  day.  You  cannot 
come  down  to  dinner  or  tea,  and  I  shall  keep  you 
locked  in  your  room.  Dr.  Clifton  and  bis  daughter 
must  be  informed  of  your  disgrace,  and  when  you 
come  out,  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  confess 
your  fault  and  sorrow  for  it  to  them  and  myself 
This  is  a  severe  punishment  my  child,  but  you  force 
me  to  inflict  it.  It  is  always  easier  and  pleasanter 
to  do  right.  Do  you  not  see  into  what  pain  and  sor- 
row you  will  cast  every  member  of  this  family,  by 
your  willfulness?  Surely,  you  will  soon  feel  sorry  to 
have  wounded  those  who  love  you  so  much,  and  de- 
sire only  your  good." 

Agnes  did  not  reply,  and  Ora  taking  her  arm,  now 
led  her  unresistingly  from  the  room.  She  was  con- 
quering. Only  a  few  more  judicious  movements, 
and  the  victory  would  be  complete. 

When  she  reached  the  room,  she  did  not  thrust 
her  in  angrily,  and  leave  her.  But  she  repeated  very 
sadly  and  feelingly. 

"Agnes,  I  am  very  sorry  you  have  forced  me  to 
punish  you  so  severely.  I  can  see  into  your  heart, 
my  child,  and  know  what  I  am  doing,  but  I  cannot 
help  it.    Try  to  conquer  the  bad  spirit  that  possesses 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


45 


you  and  give  rise  to  better  and  nobler  feelings.  Here 
is  your  book.  You  must  study  your  lesson.  I  will 
come  and  hear  it  at  noon." 

She  passed  out  and  locked  the  door  without  more 
words,  and  Agnes  scowled  darkly  after  her.  But 
her  gentle,  loving,  sorrowful  tones  were  still  ringing 
in  her  ear,  and  gradually  subduing  the  anger  that 
had  blazed  up  against  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  a  chord  in  her  heart  had  been  touched,  and  it 
vibrated  to  that  touch  with  a  strange  thrill  the  child 
could  not  define.  Love  and  tenderness  she  had  had 
all  her  life,  and  had  not  heeded  it  because  it  was 
untempered  by  firmness  and  decision.  Here  she 
found  a  spirit  softened  with  love,  strengthened  with 
purpose;  and  with  the  inherent  sense  which  compre- 
hends and  admires  the  stronger  and  nobler  powers 
of  superior  minds,  this  child  of  dark  and  bitter  pas- 
sions slowly  began  to  feel  the  dawn  of  a  better  and 
higher  nature. 

The  narration  of  the  little  episode  of  the  morning, 
did  cast  a  shadow  over  the  family  circle  which  Ora 
felt  like  a  child.  Madeline's  gentle  face  grew  sad 
and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Dr.  Clifton  was 
grave,  but  he  said  promptly. 

"You  did  right.  We  have  been  perhaps  too  con- 
scientiously tender  with  Agnes  because  she  was  or- 
phaned and  dependent  upon  us.  We  do  not  wish 
her  ever  to  feel  her  dependence.  But  there  are  ele- 
ments in  her  nature  that  must  either  be  eradicated 
©r  subdued,  else  I  forsee  trouble  for  her  future." 

"  I  am  riot  sure  that  we  have  done  her  a  kindness 
by  allowing  her  willful  nature  full  scope.    We  have 


46 


ORAj    THE   LOST  WIFE 


vainly  tried  to  win  her.  We  had  no  heart  to  punish 
her." 

"  Here  is  where  serious  mistakes  are  often  made," 
observed  Ora.  "As  much  harm  may  be  done  by 
mistaken  kindness  as  intentional  wrong."  But  she 
forbore  to  add  any  more,  and  silence  fell  upon  the 
l)arty.  In  her  recital  she  had  not  touched  upon  the 
part  Harry  Clifton  had  played  in  the  aflfair,  and  he 
appeared  utterly  oblivious  to  the  most  remote  knowl- 
edge, preserving  unbroken  silence  throughout. 

When  Ora  returned  to  the  schoolroom,  he  pointed 
over  his  shoulder  after  her  as  she  mounted  the  stairs, 
and  said  with  a  smile. 

"  We've  caught  a  tartar,  Mad.  Whew  !  you  should 
have  seen  her  eyes  flash !" 

''Why,  did  you  see  it?"  asked  Madeline  surprised. 

"Yes,  I  went  in  on  her  at  the  outset,  hearing  the 
rumpus  from  my  study.  By  George,  a  Queen  might 
have  envied  her!"  and  he  laughed,  a  low  short  laugh. 

"How  was  it?  She  represented  it  rightly?"  asked 
Madeline  half  disturbed. 

"  Perfectly." 

He  then  explained  what  passed,  word  for  word. 
"I  am  only  surprised  at  her  forbearance  with  me  in 
her  recital,"  he  said  in  conclusion. 

"  Here  we  have  more  strength  of  character  than  I 
had  supposed,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  It  is  a  good  omen, 
when  we  take  into  consideration  her  loving  gentle- 
ness and  sweetness  of  disposition.  I  think  from 
present  appearances,  we  may  trust  her." 

"Dont  be  too  hasty  my  good  Father;  Aggie  is  a 
little  volcano,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  has  not  succeeded 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


47 


in  heaving  the  stone  over  the  mouth  of  the  crater 
Wait  till  she's  conquered." 

"  I  wish  she  may  have  a  bloodless  victory  said  the 
Doctor."    Madeline  was  silent. 

Well,  there's  one  thing  sure,"  added  Harry  more 
lightly  than  was  his  wont.  "There  is  a  queen  here, 
and  she  is  pretty  sure  to  exclude  trespassers  from  her 
domains.  I  for  one  have  no  further  desire  to  risk  my 
head,  and  leave  her  to  reign  in  peace." 

So  saying,  he  took  up  his  hat  and  went  out. 

Agnes  lifted  her  eyes  calmly  to  her  teacher's  face 
when  she  went  up  to  hear  her  lessons,  and  handing 
her  the  book  recited  her  task  without  hesitation  or 
blunder.  Ora  contented  herself  with  saying  kindly : 
That  is  well,"  and  marking  another  lesson,  left  her 
to  herself  again. 

At  evening,  when  she  went  up,  she  found  her  with 
a  hot,  flushed  face,  and  traces  of  tears  on  her  cheeks 
She  had  evidently  been  weeping  bitterly,  but  she 
recited  her  lesson  promptly  as  before,  and  then  Ora 
sat  down  by  her  in  the  gathering  shades  and  taking 
the  child's  hand,  asked  softly : 

"  Aggie,  are  you  sorry  for  your  fault  ?" 

The  answer  was  prompt  and  candid  as  the  girl  laid 
her  cheek  burning  with  blushes  on  her  teacher's  knee. 

"  Yes,  very  sorry." 

Ora's  heart  throbbed.      Poor  child"  she  thought. 
What  a  struggle  it  must  have  cost  her  to  bring  her- 
self to  this."    She  stooped  and  kissed  her,  saying: 

There  is  the  seal  of  your  forgiveness.  We  will 
be  friends  in  future,  Aggie,  not  foes,  and  happiness 
will  spring  from  love." 


48 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Ah,  what  a  subtle  power  is  that  which  springs 
frora  kindness.  AVithout  knowing  it,  Ora  Meredith 
was  slowly  gathering  np  the  stray  threads  of  that 
fierce  child's  better  nature,  and  winding  them  about 
herself  in  a  bond  that  could  break  only  with  death. 
The  inherent  promptings  of  the  child's  nature  lead 
her  to  despise  those  whom  she  could  rule,  to  revere, 
and  love  the  only  one  whom  she  had  ever  seen  who 
had  used  a  controlling  power  over  her. 

Much  to  the  surprise  of  every  member  of  the  fami- 
ly, Agnes  confessed  her  fault  to  Dr.  Clifton  and  Made- 
line on  the  following  morning,  frankly,  and  expressed 
her  sorrow.  They  had  never  before  known  her  to 
yield  to  a  will  opposed  to  her  own,  and  give  way  to 
better  feelings.  They  could  not  understand  it.  So 
difierent — so  unlike  herself  with  that  shy,  yet  frank 
manner,  and  the  hot  blushes  mantling  her  cheek 
while  she  owned  her  error. 

Was  the  teacher  a  magician,  thus  to  transform  hei 
in  a  day  ? 


CHAPTER  V. 

In  the  quiet  and  hush  of  the  evening  hour,  Dr 
Clifton's  family  had  strolled  one  after  another  into 
the  library.  Dark  clouds  drifted  without,  and  an 
occasional  patter  of  rain,  made  the  fire  look  more 
bright  and  cheering  within.  Ora  sat  in  a  far  corner, 
at  the  piano,  Agnes  at  her  side  wrapt  in  a  dreamy 
spell  born  of  sad  music.    Dr.  Clifton  reposed  upon  a 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


49 


lounge  at  ease,  while  Madeline  sat  looking  listlessly 
into  the  grate,  casting  now  and  then  a  look  of  quiet 
interest  upon  the  pale  sweet  face  just  outlined  against 
the  crimson  wall  paper.  The  singer's  thoughts  must 
have  been  busy  with  the  past,  there  was  such  a  low, 
lingering  sweetness  in  her  tones. 

Gradually  the  wandering  fingers  steadied,  and  the 
VKjice  which  had  given  forth  only  brief  snatches  of 
Bong,  now  swelled  out  in  a  touching  "  Invocation." 

Tho'  thine  eyes  be  shaded,  and  thy  cheek  be  faded — 

Tho'  the  seal  of  death  be  on  thy  brow, 
iStiU  no  fate  can  sever  our  true  hearts  fo  rever. 

Tell  me  love,  where  dwells  thy  spirit  nowV 

Does  it  rest  in  stillness,  'mid  the  gloomy  chillness, 

In  the  silent  chambers  of  the  tomb  ? 
Does  it  wander  darkling,  'mid  the  diamond  sparkling, 

111  the  deep  mouthed  caverned  halls  of  gloom? 

Where  the  boundlesss  ocean  rolls  in  ceaseless  motion, 

Does  it  join  the  dwellers  of  the  deep; 
Do  the  fairy  daughters  of  the  crystal  waters 
Lull  thee  with  the  sound  of  streams  to  sleep? 

**  By  the  hopes  that  perished — by  the  love  we  cherished. 
By  the  smile  that  ever  answered  min'e — 
Give,  oh,  give  some  token,  ere  my  heart  be  broken, 
That  shall  lead  my  weary  soul  to  thine/' 

Madeline's  tears  were  dropping  silently  on  her 
black  dress  as  the  thrilling  tones  died  away  in  a 
mournful  refrain.  No  words  can  express  the  passion- 
ate sweetness  of  the  voice  whose  power  carried  the 
worda  deep  into  the  hearts  of  her  hearers.  Even  Dr. 
CliftOv^'s  eyes  swam  in  tears,  and  Agnes  stood  with  her 
little  hands  clasped,  and  her  bosom  heaving  with 
wild  eautioii  when  it  was  ended.  Kate  and  Marv 
had  paused  in  some  light  amusement  they  were  about 

5 


50 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


to  begin,  and  when  the  song  was  finished,  stole  soft- 
ly from  the  room  with  shadows  upon  their  young 
faces.  It  brought  back  the  dead  face  of  a  lost 
mother  on  a  tide  of  melting  memories.  The  others 
thought  only  of  her  whose  passionate  heart  had  for 
a  brief  space  of  time  thrown  oflf  the  mask  of  serene 
composure  to  wail  out  a  plea  to  some  lost  one 
for  whom  it  longed.  The  spell  was  complete.  It 
seemed  almost  sacrilege  to  breath  a  word  which 
would  dissipate  the  memory  of  those  sad  strains 
which  still  seemed  to  stir  the  air  with  their  tremu- 
lous sweetness. 

It  was  soon  broken,  however,  by  a  voice  which 
sounded  hard  and  cynical  as  Harry  came  in  by  a  side 
door  and  advanced  toward  the  grate. 

"  Ton  my  word,  you  all  seem  to  love  darkness,  bur- 
rowing yourselves  in  this  gloomy  place  like  so  many 
mice.    What's  the  attraction  ?" 

"Oh,  brother,  it  always  seems  nice  and*  cosy  in 
here,"  replied  Madeline  pleasantly,  hoping  to  soften 
the  effect  of  his  tones,  "  and  then  Mrs.  Meredith  was 
singing." 

"  So  I  perceived  as  I  entered,"  he  replied  dryly. 
"By  the  way,  madam,  did  it  never  occur  to  you  to 
make  a  better  use  of  your  voice — on  the  stage,  foi 
instance?  It  would  be  a  vast  difierence  from  the 
dull,  plodding  life  of  a  governess." 

His  words  were  insulting,  and  Madeline  spoke 
quickly,  with  a  troubled  look. 

"Brother!  how  you  talk!  How  can  you  be  so 
rude  ?    The  stage,  indeed  !" 

The  last  words  were  spoken  in  a  lower  tone,  but 


OEA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


51 


they  caught  Ora's  ears,  whose  heart  swelled  grate- 
fully. His  voice  had  broken  very  painfully  u])on  her 
under  the  influence  of  the  memories  that  would  rise 
in  her  heart,  and  his  words  stung  her  with  a  deep 
sense  of  injustice  and  insult;  but  she  answered  him 
in  a  voice  as  calm  and  unruffled  as  usual,with  a  slight 
tinge  of  coolness  she  could  not  repress. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it  would  be  vastly  different  as  you 
say ;  but  fortunately,  even  in  misfortune  and  pover- 
ty, we  are  still  at  liberty  to  choose  the  mode  of  labor 
which  provides  us  with  bread.  Mine,  certainly,  could 
not  approach  to  anything  like  publicity." 

"  Why,  do  you  fear  the  public  he  asked  with  a 
glance  of  cool  affrontery. 

Her  brow  flushed  hotly,  but  she  lifted  her  eyes 
to  his  face  as  she  rose  and  came  toward  the  grate 
with  a  steady  gaze,  and  scornful  lip,  saying. 

"  No  sir,  I  should  v^oifear  the  public,  but  I  despise 
it  too  much  to  make  of  myself  a  plaything  for  its 
amusement." 

The  entrance  of  a  servant  with  cards  prevented  fur- 
ther remark- on  his  part,  and  she  turned  aside  with  a 
throbbing  heart.  His  wanton  rudeness  had  moved 
her  with  unusual  force.  As  she  turned,  she  caught  a 
full  view  of  Madeline's  face  as  she  took  the  cards. 
There  was  a  brilliant  flush  upon  her  cheek  and  a  light 
in  her  eyes  which  spoke  volumes  as  she  repeated 
'Guy  Bartoni,'  'Charles  Lafarge.'  Papa,  Guy  has  re- 
turned." 

"Indeed!  John,  light  the  gas  and  show  him  in 
here.  It  is  warm  and  pleasant  in  this  room  my  dear, 
and  he  is  no  stranger,"  he  added  to  Madeline  whose 


itoiftKSlTY  OF  ILLINOIS 


52 


OR  A,    THE   LOST   \V  ME. 


vivid  color  dee|)ened  as  her  father  ttias  rt^o^i. 
his  right  to  a  familiar  footing  in  the  famil3\  Ne?-h>^,r 
of  them  noticed  the  half  gasp  of  th^  gf>V3rness  a\ 
the  name,  nor  the  ashy  paleness  which  overspread 
her  featm^es.  Harry  alone  had  caught  the  stiflec 
sound  of  her  quick  drawn  breath  and  noted  the  pallo. 
of  her  face  as  he  caught  a  slight  glimpse  of  her  pro 
tile,  and  a  smile  wreathed  his  lips,  while  his  grea 
eyes  flashed  out  a  glance  of  triumph.  In  a  moment 
she  had  glided  unnoticed,  except  by  him  from  the 
room. 

"  Ah !  there  is  a  web  here,  eh  he  half  muttered 
under  his  breath.  "  What  is  it  ?  Shall  we  get  hold 
of  the  meshes  by  and  by,  and  unravel  it?  We  shall 
see." 

The  smile  of  satisfaction  grew  broad  upon  his  face, 
lighting  it  to  a  look  of  generous  cordiality  as  he 
smoothed  and  stroked  his  cheek  softly  with  a  soft 
white  hand.  The  sister  mistook  it  for  pleasure  at  the 
new  arrival,  and  looked  grateful  and  happy. 

A  deadly  faintness  had  seized  Ora  at  the  sound  of 
the  first  name  Madeline  had  spoken,  and  she  hasten- 
ed from  the  room  to  hide  the  mortal  fear  that  struck 
to  her  heart  like  a  blow.  As  she  mounted  the  stairs, 
the  gentlemen  came  out  of  the  parlor  and  preceded 
by  the  servant,  crossed  the  hall  toward  the  library 
door. 

Casting  one  look  over  the  balustrade  as  she 
gained  the  landing,  she  saw  distinctly,  two  faces 
strongly  lighted  by  the  hall  lamp.  One  was  dark 
and  foreign,  with  heavy  beard  and  large  black  eyes. 
The  other  was  fair— almost  boyish  with  dancing  blue 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


53 


eyes  and  a  cherry  mouth  that  seemed  forever  laugh- 
ing  amid  its  dimples.  With  a  low  moan,  she  press- 
ed her  hand  over  her  heart  and  dragged  herself 
slowly  to  her  room  where  she  threw  herself  upon  her 
knees  beside  a  chair  and  buried  her  face  in  the  arms 
she  threw  over  the  cushion.  It  was  an  attitude  she 
always  assumed  when  in  pain. 

How  long  she  remained  thus,  she  could  not  tell ; 
but  at  length  she  was  roused  by  a  knock  at  her  door. 
Springing  up,  she  demanded  what  was  wanted  in  a 
voice  which  shook  slightly  in  spite  of  her  eJBforts  to 
control  it. 

"Master  Harry  says,  will  you  please  come  down  and 
favor  us  with  some  music,  '  returned  John  without. 

"  Tell  your  master  that  I  am  not  well,  and  desire 
to  be  excused,"  she  replied  and  as  the  servant  re- 
treated, she  clasped  both  hands  over  her  forehead 
with  a  gesture  of  indescribable  pain, 

"  Oh,  why  does  that  man  seek  to  torture  me  ?"  she 
groaned.  "  Insults,  taunts  and  veiled  sarcasm  is  al3 
that  he  can  give  me.  Oh,  heaven  grant  that  he  did 
not  observe  me  when  I  heard  his  name.  Perhaps  he 
did,  and  has  sent  for  me  to  further  his  eflfort  to  un- 
derstand why  it  should  move  me.  But  no,  it  was 
only  to  add  another  sting  to  the  insult  of  to-night  and 
I  will  not  seem  to  take  any  further  notice.  Whati^  it 
that  makes  him  pursue  me  with  hate?  Oh,  if  he 
should  discover  that  Guy  Bartoni  is  known  to  me, 
what  may  not  follow  ?  I  dare  not  think  of  it.  I  seem 
to  be  holding  a  cup  in  which  sparkles  all  the  wine 
of  life  there  is  left  to  me.  Will  his  hand  strike  it 
down  and  leave  me  to  die  of  thirst  in  a  wilderness  of 


54 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


misery?  Oh,  why  has  he  come  here?  How  did  he 
find  that  fair  young  dove  whose  heart  he  has  won. 
I  could  see  it  by  the  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  the 
light  in  her  eye  !  Can  he  be  her  chosen  lover  ?  Oh^ 
God  forbid  1  The  Vulture  with  the  Dove — oh,  Heav- 
en is  too  merciful  to  mate  her  thus.  I  should  die  to 
see  her  wed  him — sweet  beautiful  Madeline !  Ah, 
what  shall  I  do — how  escape  his  eye  ?  How  shall  I 
warn  her?  Dare  I  warn  her  at  all?  Oh,  I  am  in  a 
strait.    Father,  help  me  !" 

She  had  been  pacing  the  floor,  and  now  she  fell 
upon  her  knees.  Thus  it  ever  is,  in  our  misery.  We 
commune  with  ourselves  until  we  see  our  helpless- 
ness, and  then  we  turn  to  that  power  without  which 
we  can  do  nothing. 

Hours  passed  before  she  sought  her  couch  and 
endeavored  to  close  her  eyes  in  slumber. 

It  was  late  before  the  family  left  the  library.  Ora 
upon  her  knees,  had  heard  the  light  patter  of  Made- 
line's feet  as  she  passed  her  door;  a  few  moments  later 
she  had  heard  the  strangers  mount  the  stairs  also  and 
enter  chambers  on  the  same  floor  with  hers.  After- 
wards Dr.  Clifton  passed  to  his  room.  It  was  a  half 
an  hour  later  before  Harry  retired,  and  then  as  he 
went  by  her.  door,  she  fancied  she  heard  a  low  laugh, 
which  stilled  the  beatings  of  her  heart  and  made  her 
blood  course  through  her  veins  like  streams  of  ice. 
What  could  it  mean?  What  mischief  w^as  brewing 
against  her  that  should  bring  a  laugh  like  that  to  his 
lips?  Oh,  were  the  blight  days  of  peace  and  rest,  and 
the  hopes  that  sprang  out  of  them,  about  to  fade  away 
into  the  dread  chaos  from  which  she  so  lately  escaped? 


CHAPTER  VL 

A  LIGHT  streamed  in  upon  Ora's  face  and  woke  lier 
from  the  disturbed  slumber  into  which  she  had  fallen. 
She  rose  with  a  sickening  sense  of  dread,  as  the 
memory  of  the  preceding  night  came  back  to  her; 
and  endeavored  to  perform  the  duties  of  her  simple 
toilette  as  usual. 

But  her  head  swam  and  her  trembling  fingers  re- 
fused to  perform  their  office.  After  several  vain  at- 
tempts, she  realized  that  she  was  too  ill  to  sit  up,  and 
went  back  again  to  her  couch,  feeling,  even  with  all 
her  suffering,  a  sense  of  relief  when  she  thought 
that  this  would  preclude  the  necessity  of  leaving  her 
room  during  the  day. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  school  duties  being  removed 
from  her  thought,  left  her  free  to  nurse  her  illness 
and  her  troubles  in  the  quiet  and  solitude  of  her  own 
chamber 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  all  the  rooms  had  given 
up  their  inmates.  She  heard  the  light,  bouyant  tread 
of  the  young  housekeeper  as  she  went  by  her  door; 
afterwards  those  of  the  guests  as  they  desended. 
Occasionally  a  girlish  laugh  reached  her  room,  and 
she  knew  tliat  Kate  and  Mary  were  enjoying  their 
privileges  of  rising  to  breakfast  with  the  guests,  to 
the  fullest  extent.  When  the  gentlemen  went  down, 
the  noise  suddenly  ceased  and  then  all  appeared 
very  quiet  below. 
(55) 


56 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Ada's  eyes  had  been  open  nearly  an  hour  and  the 
nurse  had  succeeded  in  dressing  and  carrying  her  off 
while  her  mother  yet  slept,  so  that  she  was  now  in 
utter  solitude. 

A  short  time  passed,  and  a  servant  came  up  to  ask 
if  slie  was  coming  down  to  breakfast.  She  replied 
negatively,  and  when  he  had  gone,  closed  her  eyes 
w^earily  and  lay  still. 

Thought  was  very  busy  with  past  events,  and  both 
heart  and  brain  felt  the  pressure  of  contending  emo- 
tions. The  glimpse  of  a  familiar  face  and  form  had 
had  the  power  to  recall  events  she  would  have  given 
much  to  forget ;  and  now  the  quiet  tide  of  her  life  was 
stirred  again  to  a  turbulent  flow  which  might  never 
again  settle  into  the  blessed  calm  which  for  a  little 
while  had  made  it  seem  so  sweet. 

Tears  hung  on  the  tremulous  lashes  that  lay  on  the 
white  cheeks,  and  the  masses  of  brown  hair  scattered 
over  the  pillow,  were  damp  with  cold  dews  of  sufier- 
ing,  when  Madeline  came  in  softly  and  stood  over 
her.  She  had  not  heard  the  light  tap  on  the  door, 
nor  her  still  lighter  step  as  she  entered;  and  did  not 
even  feel  her  presence  till  a  soft,  cool  hand  touched 
her  forehead. 

"  Oh,  you  are  ill,"  began  Madeline  in  her  kind, 
eager,  earnest  waj.  "'Why  did  you  not  send  down 
word,  and  let  me  come  up  to  you  at  once?" 

Ora  looked  up  in  her  face,  and  smiled  a  sweet, 
patient  smile. 

"  You  are  too  good.  I  do  not  need  anj^thing  but 
rest,  and  would  never  think  of  taking  you  from  your 
guests." 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


57 


She  forced  herself  to  speak  indifferently.  My 
guests  could  have  done  without  me,  for  a  little  while, 
at  least,"  Madeline  replied  with  a  soft  blush.  Then 
she  took  some  Cologne  from  the  dressing  table  and 
sat  down  beside  her,  bathing  her  head  with  the  utmost 
tenderness  as  she  continued. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  came  up  here  to  tell  you 
something?  Miss  Durand  used  to  be  my  confidant 
and  adviser  in  all  household  matters  and  I  loved 
her  very  much ;  but  1  think  1  can  speak  to  you  more 
freely  than  I  could  have  done  with  her.  I  am  not 
like  most  young  girls.  I  have  no  confidants  out  of 
my  own  home,  and  you  know  that  Papa  is  not  the 
most  proper  confidant  in  all  things.  So  you  see, 
being  obliged  to  go  to  some  one,  I  have  come  to  force 
some  sympathy  from  you." 

A  deeper  glow  rose  to  the  fair  cheeks,  as,  after  the 
half  hesitating  and  apologetic  preface,  she  prepared 
to  pour  into  Ora's  ears,  the  story  of  her  love  and  hap- 
piness. 

The  lips  of  her  suffering  listener,  grew  more  ashen 
in  their  hue,  but  the  blue  eyes  unclosed  with  a  brave, 
steady  gaze  upon  the  blushing  face,  and  she  forced 
herself  to  listen  calml3^ 

"You  see  it  has  been  a  long  time  since  I  have 
seen  him — Guy,  I  mean — and  I  was  very  much  sur- 
prised when  he  came  last  night.  He  had  written  us 
from  the  West,  but  his  letter  never  reached  us.  Two 
years  ago,  he  went  across  the  Plains  to  California, 
and  has  just  returned.  We  were  betrothed  long  be- 
fore my  mother's  death,  but  he  never  said  anything 
to  her  or  father  about  it  particularly — I  was  so  young. 


58 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


I  knew  that  my  father  liked  him,  though  I  fear  poor 
mamma  did  not.  She  never  seemed  to  have  the  con- 
fidence in  him  that  papa  did;  but  she  never  said 
anything  to  me  about  him.  I  was  too  young  to  think 
of  marrying,  and  I  begged  him  to  wait  until  he 
returned,  before  much  should  be  said  in  any  way. 
He  consented,  and  so  it  has  stood.  We  corresponded 
as  regularly  as  possible, and  I  always  had  delightful 
letters  from  him,  dated  from  various  places. 

^'  I  suppose  he  will  want  the  marriage  to  take 
place  now  at  an  earlj'-  day."  She  went  on  a  little 
more  hurriedly.  "  But  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of 
leaving  papa  and  the  children.  They  would  miss 
me.  Jt  is  the  only  draw-back  to  my  happiness.  I 
know  they  can  never  get  along  without  me,  and  it  is 
folly  to  think  of  it  for  a  moment.  No  one  could  take 
my  place,  and  Guy  has  set  his  heart  upon  my  going 
with  him  to  a  beautiful  residence  on  the  Hudson^ 
some  distance  from  town.  I  want  your  advice,  dear 
Mrs.  Meredith.  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  have  not  given 
Guy  an  opportunity  to  press  his  wishes,  as  yet,  but  if 
he  should,  what  can  I  say  to  him  in  excuse  for  re- 
maining with  papa  and  the  children  ?" 

Ora's  position  was  an  extremely  delicate  and 
painful  one,  but  she  replied,  gently,  though  with  an 
effort. 

"The  simple  truth,  dear  Madeline.  He  cannot 
gainsay  your  wishes,  surely,  when  he  knows  that  they 
cannot  do  without  you.  No  one  else  can  fill  your 
place,  since  your  mother  is  gone,  and  I  do  not  wonder 
at  the  feelings  of  perplexity  you  express.  I  do  not 
like  to  advise  upon  so  delicate  a  subject  as  this,  but 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


59 


since  you  ask  me,  I  confess  I  cannot  imagine  how 
they  could  do  without  you  at  present." 

"  I  am  sure  they  could  not,"  returned  the  young  girl 
in  a  tone  denoting  deep  thought.  She  had  appeared 
lost  in  revery  during  Ora's  speech,  and  seemed  only 
to  have  caught  the  sense  of  the  last  words.  At  length 
she  added,  rousing  herself  and  speaking  positively! 

"  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  I  will  tell  Guy  that  he 
must  wait  longer.  He  may  demur,  but  if  I  am  not 
worth  waiting  for  a  while  longer,  I  am  not  worth 
having.    Still,  I  dread  the  task  of  telling  him  so." 

She  dropped  her  head  thoughtfully  upon  one  hand, 
and  Ora  surveyed  the  sober  face  pityingly.  "  Oh, 
Father,"  she  thought,  ''surely  thou  wilt  not  let  this 
pure,  sweet  girl  be  sacrificed  by  wedding  one  like 
him.  Ah!  help  me  to  save  her!  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  it !    What  canlAo  !" 

A  hasty  summons  from  Kate  took  Madeline  hur- 
riedly from  the  room  at  this  moment,  and  she  did  not 
see  her  again  for  several  hours. 

But  she  was  not  forgotten  by  the  ever  thoughtful 
girl.  A  nice  cup  of  tea  and  some  toast  came  up ; 
and  every  little  while  a  messenger  was  sent  to  know 
if  she  felt  better. 

All  day  Madeline's  cheeks  wore  the  rich  color  it 
had  assumed  during  her  little  narrative  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  her  manner  was  slightly  confused  at  times, 
as  if  nervous  with  the  dread  she  had  expressed. 
Harry  Clifton's  eyes  shot  roguish  glances  at  her 
occasionally,  which  served  only  to  increase  her  con- 
fusion, seeing  which,  he  at  last  forbore,  and  left  her 
in  peace  for  the  time  being.    The  family  all  went  to 


60 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


church  in  the  afternoon,  accompanied  hy  the  two 
gentlemen,  and  after  their  return,  household  matters 
occupied  her  till  after  dinner,  which  served  to  relieve 
Madeline  till  evening,  from  the  dreaded  tete-a  tete. 

At  length,  however,  Harry  and  the  younger  gentle- 
man started  oif  to  the  smoking  room  to  enjoy  their 
cigars,  and  Dr.  Clifton  betook  himself  to  the  Library, 
The  little  girls  went  up  to  the  nursery  to  have  a  romp 
with  Ada  before  bed  time,  and  the  two  were  left 
alone. 

It  was  a  moment  longed  for  as  much  by  one  as 
dreaded  by  the  other,  for  he  went  up  to  her  instantly, 
caught  her  hand,  then  drew  her  close  to  his  bosom 
where  she  hid  her  face,  now  dyed  to  the  forehead, 
with  crimson. 

"  Oh,  Lina,  how  cruel  you  have  been  to  me  all  this 
long  day,"  he  said  reproachtuUy.  "I  have  been 
dying  to  hold  you  here,  where  I  have  so  longed,  for 
two  weary  years,  to  fold  you  close,  close  to  my  heart ; 
and  yet  you  hold  yourself  aloof  now  that  I  have 
come  back,  and  give  me  no  opportunity  to  say  a 
dozen  words  to  you  alone.  Look  up,  darling,  and  tell 
me — do  you  love  me  now  as  when  we  parted  ?  Are 
you  still  mine  ?" 

As  ever,  dear  Guy,"  she  lifted  her  face  from  his 
bosom  and  attempted  gently  to  withdraw  herself  from 
his  arms.  "  You  do  not  deem  me  capable  of  change, 
I  hope.  Until  I  know  you  unworthy,  you  will  ever 
hold  the  first  place  in  my  heart  above  all  others." 

Then  tell  me  why  you  have  avoided  me  so  scru- 
pulously?"  he  questioned  holding  her  fast  and  again 
drawing  her  within  his  embrace.      I  have  even  tried 


ORAj    THE    LOST    WIFE.  Gl 

vainly  to  catch  your  glance  to  reassure  me.  Last 
night  I  fancied  this  sweet  face,  the  face  of  an  angel, 
it  was  so  radient  with  joy.  To-day,  however,  I  have 
been  almost  tempted  to  believe  mj'^self  deceived,  you 
were  so  cold  and  distant." 

"  Oh,  no !  not  distant  or  cold,  dear  Guy !  Only 
perplexed." 

"And  why  perplexed?" 

She  looked  up  frankly,  and  with  a  confiding  sweet- 
ness in  her  manner,  beautiful  to  see,  as  she  replied 
lowly. 

"  Because  I  remembered  that  in  the  last  letter  I 
ever  received  from  you,  you  told  me  when  you  came 
back,  it  would  be  to  claim  me  at  once  for  your 
wife—" 

"  And  so  I  shall,"  he  interrupted.  "  I  must  have 
my  bride  now,  without  delay.  Surely  I  have  waited 
long  enough.  You  do  not  mean  to  put  me  oflf  again, 
do  you  Madeline  ?" 

"  I  must,  indeed  I  must." 

His  brow  clouded,  and  an  expression  of  pain  swept 
over  her  face  as  she  observed  it. 

"  And  why  must  you  ?  Explain  Madeline.  You 
profess  to  love  me,  and  I  cannot  understand  what  can 
come  between  us  when  this  is  so.  Your  father  has 
long  known  of  our  attachment,  and  favors  our  union. 
With  mutual  love  and  his  approval,  wliat  excuse  can 
you  bring?" 

My  father's  lonely  helplessness — my  sister's  need 
of  me.  Guy,  my  mother  is  taken  from  us,  you  well 
know.  In  my  poor  way,  I  have  tried  hard  to  fill  her 
place,  and  though  I  know  how  far  short  my  efibrts 


62 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


have  fallen  I  still  know  that  they  would  miss  me 
here,  next  to  her.  What  could  they  do  without  me  ? 
Ah,  Guy,  I  cannot  leave  them  yet.  My  duty  is  here, 
and  I  must  not  selfishly  pass  over  it,  much  as  I  would 
like  to  gratify  you." 

"  Gratify  me !"  his  tone  was  almost  scornful  in  its 
bitterness,  and  Madeline  looked  at  him,  startled — al- 
most affrighted.  He  put  her  from  him  and  strode 
back  and  forth  through  the  room. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  I  had  never  expected  this. 
After  all  this  long  waiting,  I  came  back  to  you,  my 
heart  glowing  with  happiness  at  the  thought  of  call- 
ing you  mine.  Then  you  come  to  me,  and  tell  me 
still  to  wait.  Plead  a  duty  another  might  perform, 
and  expect  me  to  listen  to  it  patiently !" 

A  low  sob  replied  to  this  outburst,  and  he  went 
quickly  to  the  sofa  where  she  had  sank  and  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands  to  hide  the  tears  she 
could  not  repress. 

"  Forgive  me,  Madeline,  if  I  pain  you ;  but  I  can- 
not bear  the  thought  of  again  dragging  through  lone- 
ly, weary  years  without  you.  The  disappointment  of 
the  moment  made  me  forget  myself.  I  did  not  mean 
to  wound  you,  darling.  Tell  me  that  you  did  not 
mean  it — that  you  were  only  trying  me,  to  test  my 
love." 

"Ah,  no  Guy!  I  am  no  trifler;you  well  know  I 
have  faith  in  your  love,  and  would  gladly  be  your 
wife  to-morrow,  could  I  leave  my  poor  father,  and 
the  darling  children  my  dying  mother  confided  to 
my  care.  It  pains  me  to  disappoint  you.  Still  I 
must  do  it.    I  have  thought  a  great  deal  about  it, 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


G3 


and  the  more  1  think,  the  more  I  feel  the  sense  of 
duty  which  binds  me  here.  If  I  could  stay  with  them 
after  our  marriage,  it  would  be  diflferent,  but  that,  you 
have  always  given  me  to  understand,  I  must  not  ex- 
pect to  do.  Therefore  the  only  way  left  me,  is  to  say 
'  wait  until  I  can  leave  then  safely.'  I  cannot  do  it 
now." 

The  interview  was  long,  and  very  painful  to  the 
devoted  girl  whose  love  and  duty  were  thus  divided. 
The  lover  became  more  earnest  as  she  persisted  in 
her  refusah  He  was  angry  and  persuasive  by  turns, 
but  she  remained  firm,  and  they  parted  in  mutual 
trouble.  Madeline  carried  an  aching  heart  and  tear 
wet  face  to  her  pillow  that  night.  Guy  was  angry  and 
impatient.  He  was  both  impulsive  and  selfish,  and 
could  ill  brook  opposition  to  his  wishes.  In  Madeline 
he  had  expected  to  find  a  pliant  subject,  and  her 
firmness  surprised  and  galled  him.  He  left  her  a 
wild,  gay  and  very  loving  girl.  He  came  back  to 
find  her  a  strong,  firm  woman,  with  a  depth  of 
thought  and  purpose  beyond  his  most  extravagant 
ideas.  He  did  not  like  the  change.  Women,  accord- 
ing to  his  views,  ought  never  to  have  a  wish,  except 
through  their  husbands,  and  he  wanted  his  wife  to  be 
hisslave,not  his  companion  on  the  footing  of  an  equal, 
with  wishes  and  opinions  independent  of  his  own. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  on  reflection,  the  world 
claims  a  very  large  class  of  men  with  the  same  ideas — 
much  too  large  for  the  happiness  of  that  portion  of 
the  opposite  sex,  who  are  in  every  way  fitted  to 
stand  on  an  equal  footing,  morally  and  in  an  intellec' 
tual  sense  of  the  word. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Monday  morning  found  Mrs.  Meredith  at  her  post, 
but  she  looked  pale  and  ill,  so  that  her  excuses  for  not 
going  below  stairs,  were  readily  accepted  by  all  the 
family.  Unsuspecting,  none  except  the  ever  watch- 
ful Harr}^,  could  see  a  deeper  motive  in  her  with- 
drawal, than  to  avoid  meeting  strangers  while  feeling 
too  ill  to  mix  with  society.  But  the  one  hasty  glimpse 
of  her  pallid  face  and  wild  eyes  on  the  announcement 
of  the  visitors,  had  roused  his  interest  to  an  intense 
degree.  He  knew  that  there  was  cause  connected 
with  them  for  the  course  she  was  pursuing,  and  he  re- 
solved to  fathom  the  mystery.  His  first  attempt  proved 
futile. 

By  the  way  Guy  "  he  had  remarked  to  Bartoni  at 
breakfast,  ''you  have  been  in  St.  Louis  a  great  deal. 
Did  j^ou  ever,  when  there,  meet  with  a  Mrs.  Meredith?" 

"  Meredith  ?  No,  I  cannot  remember  that  I  ever  did. 
Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

''  O,  a  casual  question.  My  sister's  governess  came 
from  there,  and  having  once,  undoubtedly,  moved  in 
the  more  refined  circles  of  society,  I  thought  you  might 
possibly  have  known  her." 

"I  think  not.  I  have  no  reccollection  of  such  a 
person." 

Conversation  changed  to  various  subjects,  but  had 
little  life  in  it.    Madeline  looked  sad  though  evidently 

(m 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


G5 


Btriving  to  appear  cheerful.  Bartoni  was  in  no  inooJ 
for  talking  more  than  politeness  required,  and  the 
Doctor  was  sober  and  thoughtful.  In  the  sad  lace  of 
his  child  and  the  discontented  one  of  her  suitor,  he 
read  the  difficulty  between  them,  and  it  disturbed  his 
usual  happy  flow  of  spirits.  He  could  not  see  a  cloud 
upon  the  beloved  face  of  his  devoted  child  without 
acute  pain  ;  and  the  very  cause  of  her  sadness,  en- 
deared her  to  him  but  the  more.  In  her  self-denying 
love,  he  saw  a  new  beauty  of  character  which  exalted 
her.  An  intense  and  proud  admiration  mingled  with 
the  warm  emotions  of  paternal  affection  stirring  in 
his  bosom.  Now  more  than  ever,  he  felt  how  deep 
would  be  the  loss,  were  she  to  go  from  his  fireside- 
The  very  thought  brought  a  mist  to  his  eyes  which  he 
brushed  aside  hastily  to  keep  watchful  eyes  from  ob- 
serving. 

After  breakfast,  Harry  and  Charles  Lafarge,  who 
appeared  the  sole  exception  to  the  general  depression, 
strolled  off  together,  and  the  Dr.  prepared  for  his 
usual  round  of  professional  visits.  On  leaving  the 
room,  Bartoni  had  craved  a  private  interview,  but  he 
felt  himself  unequal  to  it  in  his  present  state  of  mind, 
and  put  him  off  till  his  return.  The  lover  submitted 
with  a  bad  grace,  and  went  to  his  room,  and  kissing 
the  little  girls,  the  Doctor  sent  them  up  to  their  govern- 
ess, dismissed  the  servants,  and  turned  to  his  daughter. 
Well,  my  child,  how-is  it  ?  Must  I  give  you  away?'^ 

"•No,  no,  dear  papa  !*  not  now  !  I  cannot  leave  you 
and  my  darlings  yet,"  she  replied  eagerly,  but  in  tear- 
ful sorrow.    "  I  could  not  be  so  selfish  as  to  think  of 


66 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Then  I  must  tell  Guy  I  cannot  spare  you  ?  He 
cannot  be  kept  long  in  suspense.  You  wish  me  to  say 
to  him  when  I  grant  him  the  interview  promised,  that 
I  cannot  give  you  up  ?" 

Yes,  dear  father,  it  is  my  sincere  wish.  It  dis- 
turbs him  very  much,  and  I  feel  sorry  to  disappoint 
him,  yet  it  must  be  so.  Be  gentle  and  kind  with  him, 
father,  but  be  decided." 

Suppose  he  will  not  take  my  refusal,  or  resigns 
his  suit  in  consequence  ?" 

Ah,  no !  he  could  not  do  that — at  least,  if  he  loves 
me,  he  would  rather  wait  than  give  me  up,"  she  cried 
in  a  startled  way.  ''If  he  could,  his  love  would  not 
be  the  treasure  I  have  deemed  it.  I  will  not  think 
such  a  thing  of  him." 

The  Doctor  smiled.  Such  is  woman's  devotion. 
She  will  not  believe  anything  unworthy  the  object  of 
her  love,  till  it  is  proved  to  her  unmistakably  ! 

"Well,  my  love,"  he  said  after  a  little  pause.  "I 
will  do  as  you  wish,  the  more  readily  since  I  feel  how 
utterl}^  miserable  we  should  all  be  to  lose  you.  But  it 
pains  me  to  see  you  thus  sacrificing  yourself  for  us. 
We  ought  to  be  more  unselfish. 

No,  no,  best,  dearest  of  fathers  !  you  have  never 
been  guilty  of  a  selfish  thing  !  It  is  my  earnest  wish. 
I  could  not  be  happy  even  with  him,  and  know  that 
you  needed  me,  and  I  far  away.  Only  try  to  soften 
tliis  disappointment  for  him,  and  my  heart  will  be 
lighter.    He  feels  it  so  keenly!" 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  the  lips  quivering  with 
grief.    Dr.  Clifton  drew  her  to  his  heart. 

My  brave,  generous,  noble-hearted  child!  Hotv 


OEA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


67 


can  I  ever  repay  such  unselfish  devotion !  God  bless 
you!" 

"  Ah !  He  has  blessed  me  with  a  dear  good 
father,  whose  comfort  is  above  all  things,  whose  hap- 
piness it  is  my  joy  and  pride  to  promote.  IIow  could 
I  leave  you  now,  with  these  little,  untrained  chil- 
dren on  your  hands  ?  What  could  you  do  with  them  ? 
He  must  wait  till  Kate  is  old  enough  to  take  my 
place." 

The  conference  of  the  afternoon  was  long  and  trying 
to  poor  Madeline  w^ho  waited  in  painful  suspense  to 
hear  the  result.  After  her  father  and  lover  had  been 
closeted  for  an  hour,  they  sent  for  her, — a  summons 
she  obeyed  in  great  fear  and  trembling. 

Both  gentlemen  looked  up  as  she  entered  and  the 
smiles  upon  their  faces  somewhat  reassured  her. 

Come  here  my  daughter,"  said  the  Doctor  pleas- 
antly. ''We  have  made  an  amicable  settlement  of 
this  little  matter,  which  needs  only  your  co-operation 
to  render  it  complete.  Guy  has  consented  to  remain 
with  us,  and  make  this  house  his  home,  if  you  will 
name  an  early  day  for  the  wedding,  which  leaves  you 
still  in  the  same  position  toward  us,  as  heretofore. 
What  do  you  say  ?" 

She  looked  at  Guy,  whose  eyes  pleaded  for  an  affirm- 
ative response,  and^with  a  blush  and  smile;  she  laid 
hei  hand  in  his.  The  old  man  breathed  a  deep  sigh 
of  relief.    A  load  was  taken  from  his  heart. 

''Ah  !  this  is  as  it  should  be  !  Now  I  ciin  see  my 
child  happy,  and  have  all  of  you  with  me  !  But,  pussy, 
you  have  no  idea  what  a  vast  amount  of  argument  I 
had  to  use  to  bring  him  round  to  my  side  of  the  ques- 


68 


OKA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


tioii.  I  am  out  of  breath,  exhausted !  I  leave  you  to 
punish  him  for  his  cruelty." 

So  saying,  he  took  himself  off,  his  face  all  aglow 
with  happiness  and  genial  humor.  Guy  clasped  the 
girl  to  his  bosom  and  murmured, — 

''See  how  much  I  love  you,  my  Madeline!  I  give 
up  the  long  cherished  dream  of  years,  for  the  joy  of 
calling  you  mine  without  delay.  Now,  darling,  name 
the  day,  and  make  the  time  very  short,  for  1  cannot 
bear  to  wait." 

Thus  we  leave  them  in  the  broad  sunlight  of  re- 
stored happiness,  while  we  look  in  again  upon  our 
heroine. 

The  children  had  flung  their  books  aside  for  the 
day,  and  bounded  joyously  away,  glad  to  be  free,  and 
the  teacher  with  a  faint  sigh  of  relief,  closed  her  desk 
and  bowed  her  head  upon  it.  She  was  very  weary. 
On  this  day,  her  duties  had  been  more  than  usually 
trying.  She  could  not  concentrate  her  thoughts  upon 
the  work  before  her,  and  bring  them  from  the  dark 
chaotic  pool  into  which  they  were  constantly  flying. 
Agnes  had  observed  her  absence  of  mind  and  depres- 
sion, but  attributing  it  to  illness,  thought  only  of  try- 
ing to  lighten  her  labors  by  more  than  usual  care; 
while  on  the  contrary,  Kate  and  Mary  seized  their 
advantage  to  become  more  careless  and  mischievous 
than  ever. 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Ora  sat  still  in  her  place, 
the  sunlight  streaming  in  upon  her  hair,  and  lighting 
it  to  a  glorious  radiance.  She  was  so  still,  an  observer 
might  have  thought  her  asleep,  but  for  the  occasional 
shudder  that  passed  over  the  slight  frame.  Agnes 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


69 


who  had  come  back,  stood  several  minutes  by  her 
side,  before  she  ventured  to  touch  her  arm  and  attract 
her  attention. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  she  asked  looking  up  wearily. 
"  Why  have  you  come  back  instead  of  going  to  play 
with  the  girls  ?" 

"  1  could  not  go  with  them  when  you  looked  so  sick 
and  in  trouble,  dear  Mrs.  Meredith.  I  feel  too  sorry 
to  play." 

The  child's  earnest  tones  of  sympathy  touched  the 
troubled,  longing  heart  of  the  woman.  She  drew  her 
to  her  side  with  an  impulse  of  strong  affection. 

"Dear  little  Agnes!  supposing  I  am  sick,  and  in 
trouble,  what  could  you  do  for  me  ?  Go,  darling,  and 
play.  Do  not  let  a  thought  of  me  mar  your  pleasure." 
'  "Oh,  please,  dont  send  me  from  you.  Tou  know  I 
am  not  like  them^  and  dont  care  to  play  as  they  do. 
I  had  rather  stay  with  you.  Besides,  I  dont  want  to 
go  where  I  may  see  that  man." 

"  What  man  do  you  mean,"  asked  Ora  in  surprise. 

"  The  tall,  dark  man  they  call  Guy  Bartoni.  He 
makes  me  shudder  whenever  I  look  into  his  eyes.  I 
feel  dreadfully  when  I  am  where  he  is." 

"Why,  Agnes, -what  makes  you?    Why  should  he 
make  you  feel  badly  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.   But  I  am  sure  there  is  something 
in  it.    He  is  not  a  good  man.    Can  you  imagine  how 
people  feel  when  a  snake  looks  into  their  eyes  and 
charms  them  ?    Well,  I  feel  just  so  when  he  looks  at  . 
me.    Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it!" 

She  shivered  and  drew  closer  to  the  side  of  her 
teacher." 


70 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


''Dont  talk  so,  my  child.  You  do  not  kuow  what 
you  are  saying.  Mr.  Bartoni  is  your  guardian's  friend 
and  guest,  and  you  must  try  to  banish  such  groundless 
fancies,"  said  Ora,  concientiously  striving  to  put  aside 
her  own  feelings  and  bring  the  child  to  discard  her 
antipathy.  But  Agnes  was  strong  in  her  expression 
of  loathing,  and  no  power  could  remove  her  dread 
and  dislike. 

For  the  first  time,  Ora  observed  that  she  held  in  her 
hand  a  sheet  of  music.  She  took  it  from  her  and 
looked  at  it.  It  was  an  air  from  Trovatore. 
What  are  you  doing  with  this,  Agnes  ?" 
Trying  to  learn  it.  I  was  in  the  music  room  just 
now,  but  I  could  not  quite  get  it  all  right.  Wont  jou 
please  show  me  how  to  sing  this  part?" 

She  pointed  to  a  difficult  part  in  the  music,  and 
looked  up  wishfully. 

Certainly  dear,  but  I'm  afraid  it  is  most  too  hard 
for  you.    What  made  you  choose  this  piece  ?" 

"Because  I  liked  it  better  than  any  other  piece  I 
know.    It  suits  my  feelings." 

"  No,  no,  Aggie.  Dont  say  that.  It  is  too  sad  a 
cry  for  this  little  child  heart  of  yours  to  understand. 
You  mistake  your  love  for  music, for  sympathy  with 
the  sentiment  of  the  song.    Come,  I  will  teach  you." 

They  went  out  together,  and  in  a  few  moments  her 
rich,  full  tones  swelled  out  in  the  most  touching  of 
Verdi's  matchless  compositions.  "  Ah  !  Che  La  Mar- 
ie Ognora!''^  The. child's  voice  chimed  in  with  hers, 
clear  and  sweet  as  a  bell,  with  a  promise  in  its  present 
power,  of  a  glorious  development  in  the  future.  Ora 
was  surprised.    She  had  often  observed  her  love  foi 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


71 


music,  and  noted  with  pleasure  her  rapid  progress. 
But  never  before  had  such  passionate  feeling  rung 
through  the  child's  tones  as  thrilled  her  now. 

"Oh !  I  know  just  how  any  one  would  feel  to  say 
Buch  words,"  cried  Agnes  when  they  had  finished. 

I  went  to  the  Opera  once  with  MMeline,  and  I  cried 
bitterly  when  this  part  was  sung." 

She  placed  her  finger  upon  the  words — 

"  Out  of  the  love  I  bear  thee. 

Yield  I  my  life  for  thee  I 

Wilt  thou  not  think — 

"Wilt  thou  not  think  of  me? 

Oh!  fare  thee  well,  my  Leonora,  fare  thee  well." 

''I  could  scarcely  breathe!  Oh,  if  one  I  love  so 
much,  were  to  leave  me,  I  should  die  I"  and  from  the 
earnest,  passionate  tones  in  which  she  uttered  the 
words,  Ora  knew  that  she  felt  what  she  expressed. 

Ah  me  !"  she  sighed  inwardly.  "  Poor,  strongly 
loving,  passionate  little  heart !  What  bitterness  may 
be  in  store  for  you,  should  you  ever  find  one  on  whom 
your  affections  may  rest!" 

At  this  moment  Madeline  came  in  upon  them,  wear- 
ing a  look  of  radiant  happiness.  Ora's  heart  beat 
heavily.  What  was  coming  now.  Her  prophetic 
fears  spoke  but  too  truly. 

"  Come,  into  my  room  a  little  while,  please"  she 
begged  slipping  her  arm  around  her  with  loving  con- 
fidence.   I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

For  a  moment  Ora  struggled  with  the  feelings  that 
threatened  to  overpower  her.  Then  she  bade  Agnes 
go  down  stairs  and  stay  with  the  girls,  and  went  away 
with  her  eager  companion. 


'72 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


Madeline  in  the  excess  of  her  happiness,  seated  her, 
and  threw  herself  in  childlike  abandon  at  her  feet, 
resting  her  fair  face  upon  her  lap  while  she  clasped 
both  hands  in  hers. 

"Ah!  it  is  so  nice  to  have  somebody  to  talk  to 
when  we  are  too  happy  to  contain  ourselves  !  I  am 
so  glad  that  I  can  make  a  friend  of  you,  and  not  feel 
that  I  am  losing  my  dignity  by  treating  you  as  an 
equal.  For  you  are  indeed  my  superior,  in  every  re- 
spect, and  are  so  good  and  patient  always,  I  must  love 
you.  But,  here  I  am  running  on  without  saying  what 
I  brought  you  to  hear  !  I  am  so  glad  its  all  over. 
Oh,  I  was  so  heart  sick  last  night ;  so  sad  and  fearful 
to-day !  Guy  was  so  disappointed  and  angry  when  I 
told  him  that  I  could  not  leave  my  father,  and  said  so 
many  bitter  things.  He  is  so  impulsive,  he  cannot 
bear  opposition.  But  he  had  a  long  talk  with  papa, 
and  now  it  is  all  right.  He  will  stay  here — all  of  us 
can  live  together,  and  I  can  be  with  my  dear  charges 
till  they  no  longer  need  me!  Ah  !  I  am  so  glad.  I 
have  had  to  make  him  a  promise  for  an  early  wedding 
in  consequence  of  his  yielding  to  papa's  request  to 
stay  here,  and  we  are  to  be  married  early  in  the  spring." 

She  did  not  see  the  deathly  hue  of  the  face  above 
her,  and  was  too  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts  to  note 
the  trembling  of  the  fingers  threading  her  hair.  And 
so,  while  the  pale  lips  closed  in  mute  agony,  repress- 
ing the  cry  that  rose  from  her  heart,  the  young  girl 
went  on  with  her  story,  telling  her  of  the  plans  formed 
for  future  happiness,  and  the  many  glorious  prospects 
Bpread  out  before  them. 

It  was  quite  dark  ere  she  had  done  and  rose  to  go 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


73 


below,  BO  that  she  did  not  see  the  strained  look  of 
suffering  upon  the  face  before  her,  in  the  dim  light, 
and  she  left  her,  unconscious  of  the  misery  she  had 
awakened. 

On  separating  from  his  betrothed,  Guy  had  gone  uj) 
to  his  room,  his  thoughts  divided  between  pleasure 
and  discontent.  Could  good  Dr.  Clifton  have  looked 
into  the  man's  heart,  and  seen  the  secret  motives  whicli 
prompted  his  actions,  he  would  have  shrank  shudder- 
ingly  from  committing  his  child  to  the  care  of  such  a 
being. 

Bartoni,  was  as  his  name  indicated  him,  of  Italian 
descent.  His  father  was  a  native  of  Italy,  coming  from 
a  family  of  great  wealth  and  influence.  He  boasted  n' 
long  line  of  titled  ancestry,  of  which  he  was  very 
proud,  but  his  father  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  coun- 
try in  which  he  took  a  fancy  t6  travel,  and  one  of  hor 
fair  daughters  captured  his  affections.  He  married  in 
Now  York  and  died  shortly  after  the  birth  of  his  only 
son.  Mrs.  Bartoni  remained  with  her  relations  after 
his  death,  and  as  the  boy  grew  up,  gave  all  her  atten- 
tion to  his  education.  She  was  a  very  kind,  indulgent 
mother,  and  the  strong  passions  transmitted  from 
father  to  son,  made  her  at  an  early  period  of  his  liib, 
the  slave  to  his  wishes  and  whims.  And  so,  growiii.; 
up  thus  uncontrolled  and  unrestrained  by  steady  hands, 
at  twenty,  he  was  as  wild  and  willful  as  it  was  possi- 
ble for  him  to  be.  Nothino;  but  a  stronix  element  of 
pride  in  his  nature,  saved  him  from  open  recklessness. 
Shortly  after  his  twentieth  birthday  his  mother  die  1, 
and  the  funeral  rites  were  scarcely  ended,  ere  he  left 
the  city  for  parts  unknown. 

7 


74 


ORAj    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


Two  years  passed  away,  and  he  came  back.  A 
change  had  come  over  him.  He  was  less  wild,  more 
steady  and  manly  than  heretofore,  and  his  friends  grew 
very  hopeful  with  this  good  omen.  Nothing  trans- 
pired to  change  the  favorable  light  in  which  he  suc- 
ceeded in  placing  himself,  and  when  he  saw  Madeline 
Clifton,  and  sought  to  engage  her  interest,  the  Dr. 
had  quietly  suffered  it,  feeling  that  he  w^as  safe  in 
doing  so. 

Still  we  have  seen  the  course  she  had  pursued,  and 
know^  how  it  was  that  the  marriage  did  not  take  place 
at  the  time.  She  pleaded  her  youth,  and  won  his 
promise  to  wait  in  silence.  He  went  to  California  in 
the  interval,  but  of  that  portion  of  his  life  during  his 
absence,  no  one  knew  anything  beyond  what  was  sur- 
mised from  his  letters.  This,  however  proving  satis- 
factory, no  one  sought  to  know  more. 

In  returning,  he  had  brought  with  him  a  friend, 
Charles  Lafarge,  who  he  said,  had  shared  his  wander- 
ings amid  strange  scenes.  They  were  inseparable. 
He  spoke  glowingly  of  his  position,  possessions  and 
talents,  and  the  bright,  handsome  face  of  the  stranger 
did  the  rest.  Three  days  had  not  passed,  ere  he  be- 
came a  general  favorite. 

We  have  said  that  Bartoni  sought  his  room,  his 
mind  divided  between  pleasure  and  discontent.  The  * 
grim  smile  upon  his  dark  features  certainly  betokened 
satisfaction  as  he  threw  himself  upon  a  lounge  and 
tossed  the  masses  of  raven  hair  away  from  his  face, 
muttering  half  audibly: — 

Pretty  sure  thing,  though  !  Guess  I  can  stand  the 
terms  for  a  while,  when  the  bird  is  safe  in  my  hands. 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


75 


Leave  myself  a  little  time  to  transfer  it  to  a  cage  of  my 
own  choice,  when  the  old  man's  purse  strings  have 
yielded  handsomely  to  my  wants.  By  Jupiter,  Made- 
line is  a  handsome — yes,  a  queenly  girl,  bnt  deuced  if 
I  dont  take  some  of  the  spirit  out  of  her  when  she  is 
safely  my  own.  /  yield  now  !  We'll  see  who  gives 
in  six  months  hence!" 

And  it  was  to  this  man.  Dr.  Clifton  was  about  to 
give  his  Pearl  beyond  price  !  To  this  man  she  had 
given  her  sweet,  pure  love  ! 

Suddenly  upon  the  stillness,  broke  strains  of  rich, 
entrancing  melody.  With  the  first  notes,  he  started 
to  a  sitting  posture  and  listened  intently,  scarcely 
moving  till  the  last  tones  melted  away  in  the  stillness. 
Then  he  breathed  heavily  and  exclaimed! 

''There  can  be  but  one  voice  on  earth  like  that! 
Surely,  I  would  know  it  amongst  a  thousand  !  Yet, 
how  absurdly  I  am  talking !  It  were  impossible  fox 
her  to  be  here.  But  who  is  it,  then  ?  Ah  1  I  have  it ! 
The  Governess !  I  remember  a  child's  voice  accofn 
panying  hers.  Besides  I  heard  the  family  speak  of 
her  glorious  voice.  No  w^onder.  But  what  a  won- 
derful resemblance.  I  could  almost  have  sworn  that 
it  was  Glendora's." 

He  heard  Madeline's  voice  as  they  came  out  of  the 
music  joom  and  went  down  the  corridor  and  eager 
for  a  glimpse  at  the  stranger's  face,  looked  cautiously, 
through  the  door.  He  was  too  late,  however,  to  catch 
anything  but  a  glimpse  of  the  two  forms  as  they  dis- 
appeared in  Madeline's  chamber,  and  turned  away 
disappointed. 

"I  must  be  mistaken,"  he  muttered.    "She  is  a 


76 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


visitor,  doubtless;!  cannot  think  of  Madeline  on  such 
familiar  terms  with  the  childrens'  governess !  I  must 
find  out  who  she  is." 

This  little  incident  awakened  a  new  train  of  thought 
which  he  indulged,  pacing  slowly  back  and  forth 
through  his  room  till  the  servant  came  in  to  light  the 
gas.  Then  he  took  from  his  trunk  materials  for  writ- 
ing, and  remained  thus  engaged,  till  summoned  to  tea. 

On  going  below,  he  glanced  around  as  if  expecting 
to  see  some  one.  Madeline  observed  it  with  a  look 
of  inquiry,  and  he  said  smiling  : 

''I  thought  you  had  a  visitor.  I  heard  such  sweet 
music  a  little  while  since,  I  was  tempted  to  hope  for  a 
repetition.    Who  was  the  fair  songstress  ?" 

''That  was  Mrs.  Meredith.  She  does  sing  very 
sweetly.  I  do  not  wonder  you  were  charmed.  1 
never  hear  her  sing  without  tears  springing  to  mj 
eyes.  Her  expression  is  matchless.  She  makes  yoi? 
feel  every  word  she  utters,  and  evidently  feels  thertt 
more  keenly  herself.  I  would  give  anything  for  her 
musical  talent." 

''  Or  an  equal  portion  of  your  own"  laughed  her 
father.  ''How  is  she,  my  daughter?  I  have  not  seen 
her  to-day.    She  was  complaining  yesterday  ?" 

"Somewhat  better,  I  think,  but  far  from  w^ell.  She 
has  been  in  the  schoolroom  all  day,  and  looks  ^ale  g 
and  tired.    I  hope  she  wont  get  ill  from  over  exer- 
tion." 

Guy  looked  surprised.  He  could  not  understand 
the  deep  interest  expressed  in  a  mere  governess,  much 
less  the  close  intimacy  of  his  affianced  bride  with  one 
occupying  so  inferior  a  position. 


ORA^    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


77 


"She  must  be  a  prodigy,"  he  remarked  somewhat 
dryly,  ^'to  elicit  such  praise  and  awaken  such  interest. 
Who  is  she  ?" 

The  lady  of  whom  I  spoke  the  other  morning,  as 
a  former  resident  of  St.  Louis,"  said  Harry  in  reply, 
without  waiting  for  others  to  speak.  "She  appears  to 
be  creating  a  commotion.  Father  and  sister  Mad 
were  her  sworn  allies  from  the  beginning ;  Kate  and 
Mary  soon  succumbed  to  her  charms.  Little  black  eyed, 
tornado  Aggie,  was  harder  to  manage.  She  was 
never  known  to  love  anybody  in  her  life,  but  after  a 
certain  time,  there  was  w^ar  between  two  opposing 
forces.  The  governess  proved  the  stronger  of  the  two, 
and  brought  the  little  rebel  to  terms  most  extraordi- 
nary. She  now  worships  her  very  footsteps.  lam 
the  only  unconquered  reprobate  of  the  family  I  believe, 
and  am  patiently  waiting  my  turn." 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  he  knew  he  was  interesting 
his  auditor  by  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  hoped 
thus  to  catch  a  clue  to  the  mystery  he  was  endeavor- 
ing quietly  to  solve. 

"  Why,  really,  sir,"  observed  Mr.  Lafarge,  your 
governess  becomes  quite  a  heroine.  Does  she  asso- 
ciate with  the  family  ?  I  am  becoming  curious  to  see 
her." 

This  was  what  Harry  wanted.  He  hoped  thus, 
without  seeming  to  desire  it,  to  bring  about  a  meeting. 
Dr.  Clifton  furthered  his  wishes  unconsciously. 

''We  will  ask  her  to  come  down,  if  she  feels  able, 
and  favor  us  with  some  music.  I  enjoy  her  singing 
very  much,  and  have  a  proof  that  you  will,  also  Guy, 
by  your  remark  a  few  moments  since.    Mr.  Lafarge 


78 


0  R  A  5    THE    L'O  S  T  WIFE. 


has  yet  to  jiiclge  from  personal  knowledge,  if  it  is  to 
his  taste." 

I  shall  certainly  be  glad  of  the  opportunity,"  re- 
turned the  gentleman.      You  quite  interest  me." 

A  little  silence  fell  upon  the  party  gathered  round 
the  board,  broken  at  length  by  a  cry  that  startled 
them  as  by  the  shock  of  an  earthquake,  it  was  so  wild 
and  piercing.  It  came  from  above,  and  Madeline 
without  apology  sprang  through  the  door  and  darted 
up  the  stairway.  The  cries  continued,  proceeding 
from  Ora's  room.  Dr.  Clifton  followed  more  slowly. 
Harry  remained  with  the  guests,  in  breathless  sus- 
pense to  learn  the  cause  of  the  alarm. 

The  scene  presented  to  Madeline's  view  on  entering 
the  chamber,  was  one  of  w^ild  confusion.  Ada  sat 
screaming  in  childish  terror  upon  the  floor,  while  her 
nurse  supported  the  head  of  the  fallen  mother  upon 
her  lap.  Ora  lay  pale  and  still  as  if  death  had  smit- 
ten her  with  one  blow  from  the  fair  scenes  of  life,  a 
crimson  stream  pouring  over  the  purple  lip  and  stain- 
ing the  carpet  by  her  side.  Agnes  stood  over  her 
with  locked  hands  and  rigid  features.  Terror  and 
anguish  had  deprived  her  of  speech  after  the  first  wild, 
agonized  screams  that  had  brought  the  family  to  the 
scene. 

Oh,  Father  of  mercies !"  ejaculated  the  girl  as  she 
hastily  bent  over  the  prostrate  form.  "What  is  this  ? 
How  did  it  happen  ?  Tell  me,  some  of  you.  Can  you 
speak,  Agnes?    Father,  ftither,  come  quickly!" 

''Here  I  am"  said  the  Dr.  entering.  ''Why,  what 
does  this  mean  ?  Ah  !  a  hemorrage  !  Help  me,  daugh- 
ter, to  lift  her  on  the  bed.    Hold  up  her  head  nurse, 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


79 


till  I  can  lift  her  in  my  arms.  There,  that  is 
right." 

They  laid  her  on  the  couch,  and  with  great  prompt- 
ness, the  old  man  applied  restoratives.  A  crowd  was 
round  the  door.  He  ordered  every  one  kept  out,  and 
enjoined  quiet. 

''Kate  and  Mary,  go  down  stairs  my  children,  and 
nurse,  take  that  child  from  the  room.  Agnes,  go  with 
them.  Go^  Madeline,  and  send  John  to  me  to  get 
what  I  want.  Tell  them  down  stairs  that  it  is  not 
anything  very  serious,  I  hope.  Then  come  back  to 
me.  Above  all,  do  keep  things  quiet.  I  hate  such 
confusion." 

His  orders  were  obeyed  promptly  by  all  save  Agnes. 
She  crept  into  the  shadow  of  the  curtains  and  remained 
like  a  statue,  her  acute  senses  alive  to  every  word  and 
action  that  might  indicate  hope  or  despair. 

In  a  sborttime  the  hemorrhage  was  stopped  and  the 
sufferer  opened  her  eyes  languidly.  The  Dr.  bade  her 
be  quiet  in  very  kind  tones  ;  told  her  that  her  recovery 
depended  on  her  silence,  and  strove  to  re-assure  her 
by  his  manner,  in  every  way.  A  look  of  gratitude 
swept  over  the  white  face,  and  a  mist  obscured  the 
dark  orbs,  but  she  remained  perfectly  still  as  he  di- 
rected. 

Tlien  from  Jane,  the  girl's  story,  as  repeated  to 
Madeline  a,fter  being  sent  out,  he  learned  how  it  all 
happened. 

After  giving  Ada  her  supper,  she  had  carried  her 
into  her  mother's  room  to  undress  and  put  her  to  bed. 
She  thought  the  lady  looked  very  pale  as  she  lay  upon 
the  sofa,  but  as  she  was  always  pale,  she  had  not  paid 


80 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


.particular  attention.  Ada  had  clambered  up  for  a 
kiss  where  she  was  lying,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  raising 
i:  jrself  to  a  posture  more  suited  to  her  efforts,  sud- 
<ionly  pressed  her  hand  over  her  bosom  as  if  in  acute 
p'lin.  A  fit  of  coughing  followed,  and  she  got  up 
,i'id  started  across  the  room  toward  the  dressing  table. 
^V'hen  about  mid  way,  she  paused,  uttered  a  faint  cry, 
;nid  fell  to  the  floor  as  if  dead — the  blood  pouring 
irom  her  mouth  in  a  stream. 

The  first  cry  of  alarm,  was  from  the  girl,  and  had 
attracted  Agnes  who  had  never  left  the  Music  Room. 
The  child's  screams  had  reached  the  dining  room  and 
brought  Madeline  and  the  Dr.  to  the  spot. 

Toward  midnight,  a  burning  fever  set  in.  Made- 
line who  had  insisted  on  watching  the  sufierer  the  first 
])'civt  of  the  night,  summoned  her  father  who  shook  his 
head  uneasily.  He  did  not  like  the  symptoms.  As 
!ie  feared,  a  dangerous  iLness  ensued  which  threatened 
to  terminate  the  existence  of  the  patient. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


A  WEEK  had  passed  away  since  the  incident  which 
had  occurred  to  disturb  the  regular  routine  of  life  in 
the  Clifton  Mansion.  The  morning  after  the  catastro- 
phe, the  visitors  left,  cutting  their  visit  much  shorter 
than  they  had  expected  to  do  under  the  circumstances 
prevailing.  The  portion  of  Guy's  relations  with 
whom  he  was  on  intimate  terms,  were  absent  on  a 
European  tour.  Those  still  in  town,  had  been  es- 
tranged from  him  by  an  old,  boyish  freak,  leaving  him 
under  the  necessity  now,  of  going  to  his  own  lonely 
residence  on  the  Hudson  or  taking  up  lodgings  in  a 
Hotel.  He  preferred  the  latter,  and  on  Tuesday  after- 
noon both  himself  and  friend  were  snugly  installed  at 

the  A  ,  where  they  intended  to  remain  until  the 

return  of  his  aunt's  family,  who  were  expected  home 
in  a  few  weeks. 

Dr.  Clifton  was  unremitting  in  his  care  of  the  inva- 
lid. Madeline  devoted.  But  she  lay  scorched  with 
fever  and  wild  in  delirium.  The  hearts  of  the  watchers 
ached  with  the  piteous  wailings  that  issued  from  the 
parched  lips  of  the  sufferer.  Sometimes  they  were 
startled  by  the  wild  bursts  of  agony  that  escaped  her, 
and  incoherent  ravings  of  a  murdered  child.  She 
seemed  to  fancy  herself  the  mother  of  a  beautiful 
boy,  for  whose  life  she  pleaded  in  passionate  vehe- 
mence. Then  she  would  wail  out  that  he  was  dead 
(81) 


82 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


and  that  her  heart  was  broken.  Often  she  fancied 
nerself  in  a  wilderness,  with  her  child  in  her  arms, 
helpless  to  get  out.  She  would  call  upon  friends  to 
come  to  her,  and  save  her.  Then  she  was  whirling 
over  strange  lands,  and  amid  strangers.  But  all  this 
was  so  wildly  confused,  no  clue  could  be  gained  as  to 
a  fixed  meaning,  and  they  termed  it  but  the  distor- 
tions of  a  fevered,  unsettled  imagination. 

On  the  sixth  night.  Dr.  Clifton  pronounced  a  crisis 
at  hand.  '  A  young  lady  friend  who  lived  next  door, 
kindly  shared  the  anxious  vigil,  and  the  three  forms 
of  the  watchers  looked  like  so  many  statues,  as  the 
hour  of  midnight  approached.  Madeline  sat  upon 
the  side  of  the  couch,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the  pale, 
thin  face.  Dr.  Clifton  beside  the  bed  clasping  one 
tiny  hand,  his  fingers  on  the  faint,  fluttering  pulse. 
Miss  Gerhard  sat  a  little  apart,  but  wearing  an  ex- 
pression of  anxious  interest  awakened  by  the  many 
enthusiastic  praises  she  had  heard  from  Madeline 
and  the  children,  of  their  lovely  governess. 

With  a  low  moan  the  sick  woman  tossed  up  her 
hands  and  an  expression  of  scorn  and  anguish  swept 
her  features.  The  great  dark  blue  eyes  fixed  as  if 
upon  some  hated  object,  and  blazed  resentment  as 
she  broke  forth  passionately. 

"  Away  sir,  and  never  dare  to  speak  to  me  again  I 
The  very  sound  of  your  voice  is  pollution  !  I  would 
have  you  know,  sir,  that  lonely  as  I  am,  neglected* 
scorned,  if  you  will,  I  am  still  able  to  defend  myself 
from  insult,  and  will  do  it.    Go  from  me  this  instant.^' 

Dr.  Cliiton  looked  up  quickly  at  his  daughter  whose 
face  was  the  picture  of  angelic  pity.    He  was  begin- 


0  U  A  ,    'J'  II  K    LOST  WIFE. 


83 


ning  to  see  more  than  the  mere  images  presentod 
through  the  medium  of  delirium,  while  she  was  still 
blinded  by  ignorance.  A  rememberance  of  her 
brief  history  before  she  came  to  them,  connected 
this  fragment  with  it,  vaguely,  it  is  true ;  but  still 
definitely  enough  to  convince  him  that  she  was  re- 
tracing in  feverish  paths,  the  footsteps  trodden  in 
her  past  life. 

"  Ah,"  she  again  murmured — now  sadly  and  bro- 
kenly "Edward,  Edward!  but  for  you,  I  had  never 
been  thus  exposed  to  insult  and  wrong.  Oh,  what 
has  come  over  you — where  is  your  pride  and  self- 
respect,  thus  to  leave  me  to  struggle  alone  with  dilE- 
culties  !" 

_  The  revelations  were  becoming  too  marked  and 
painful,  and  the  good  old  physician  administered  a 
potion  hastily,  to  quiet  her  ravings,  while  Madeline 
with  a  soft  sponge,  gently  bathed  the  white  brow 
from  which  the  beautiful  hair  was  tossed  back  in 
luxuriant  waves  and  scattered  upon  the  pillow.  They 
could  not  bear  to  sever  this  wealth  of  beauty  from 
her  head,  and  had  striven  with  all  care  to  save  it,  suc- 
ceeding by  keeping  napkins,  wet  in  ice  water,  laid 
over  the  hot  brow. 

In  a  few  moments  she  became  quiet  and  lay  still. 
A  gray  pallor  slowly  crept  over  the  features,  and  the 
scarlet  lips  gradually  grew  pale.  The  Dr's  eyes  were 
riveted  upon  her  face.  Madeline  was  trembling  with 
the  great  fear  that  swelled  her  heart.  The  shadow 
of  Death  was  upon  the  beautiful  form.  Would  it 
settle  there,  and  still  it  to  eternal  slumber? 

Whiter,  whiter  grew  the  pallid  face.    It  looked  like 


84  ^  0  R  A  ^    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


\i  pure  sculpture  of  parian  marble  in  its  immovable 
Ijeauty.  The  large  eyes  were  but  half  vailed  by  the 
long,  dark  lashes,  and  the  little  hands  lay  limp  and 
cold  across  her  bosom.  Ah!  surely  the  dread  De- 
stroyer was  at  his  work !  A  moment  more,  and  it 
would  be  finished ! 

"  Oh,  papa  !  will  she  die? — is  she  dead?''  breathed 
the  terrified  girl  almost  inaudibly. 

He  placed  his  ear  to  her  heart.  It  beat  faintly. 
An  almost  imperceptible  respiration  moved  the  linen 
over  her  bosom.  But  the  faint  spark  of  life  was  so 
uncertain,  he  scarcely  dared  reply,  and  she  took  it 
Ibr  granted  that  she  was  already  dead.  Bowing  her 
face  upon  her  hands  she  wept  silently. 

Several  moments  passed  away.  A  deep  inspira- 
tion heaved  the  bosom  wherein  the  faint  heart  still 
tiirobbed  lowly.  Then  the  breath  become  more  full 
n  nd  strong.  A  steady  inspiration  followed  that  heavy 
sigh,  and  slowly,  very  slowly,  the  color,  like  the  deli- 
cate tint  of  a  seashell,  dawned  upon  the  cheeks  and 
lips.  The  eyes  closed  in  a  natural  repose,  and  a  gen- 
tle perspiration  stood  upon  the  forehead.  With  in- 
tense interest,  the  physician  watched  the  dawning 
cf  a  new  life,  as  it  were,  and  as  it  increased,  a  glow 
('Fdeep  satisfaction  settled  upon  his  kind  face. 

"Safe!"  he  ejaculated.  " Look  up,  my  daughter, 
I  think  the  danger  past." 

A  low  murmur  of  thankfulness  responded.  The 
generous  girl  had  come  to  love  the  quiet,  sorrov/ing 
woman,  with  a  love  almost  beyond  her  own  under- 
standing. The  restoration  of  her  life  at  a  moment 
when  she  thought  her  gone  forever,  was  to  her  loving 


0  R  A ,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


85 


heart,  like  a  special  boon  from  the  divine  source  of 
all  mercies.  Thankfully  she  bowed  her  head  again, 
now  in  earnest  prayer. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Madeline  prevailed  upon  her 
father  to  retire.  Ora  slept  peacefully,  and  after  pre- 
paring a  place,  in  an  adjoining  chamber  communica- 
ting with  the  one  they  now  occupied,  for  Miss  Ger- 
hard, she  turned  the  gas  to  a  twilight,  and  softly  laid 
herself  beside  the  invalid. 

She  did  not  try  to  sleep.  Notwithstanding  her 
father's  assurance  of  the  speedy  recovery  of  their 
charge,  she  feared  a  change,  and  lay  wakefuUy  ob- 
servant. 

Sometime  passed  away,  and  at  length  she  closed 
her  eyes  in  utter  weariness.  The  watching  of  the 
past  week,  had  worn  her  very  much.  Yet  the  attend- 
ant excitement  of  the  vigils,  had  prevented  her  feel- 
ing it  so  keenly  as  she  felt  it  now.  She  was  nearly 
falling  asleep  unawares,  when  a  faint  movement  at 
the  foot  of  the  couch,  caused  her  to  look  up.  For  a 
moment  the  vision  that  arrested  her  gaze,  caused  the 
blood  to  circle  icily  about  her  heart. 

A  tiny  figure  stood  there,  a  loose  flowing  robe  of 
white  falling  about  it,  while  long,  waving  curls  floated 
over  the  little  shoulders.  A  pair  of  large,  eager  eyes 
rested  upon  the^  two  figures  stretched  upon  the  bed, 
shining  like  stars  in  the  dim  light. 

"  Ada !  my  child  !  what  brought  you  here,  darling?" 

She  rose  quickly,  and  took  the  little  form  in  her 
arms.  The  child  was  shivering  with  cold,  but  was 
very  qniet,  submitting  herself  passively  to  her  em- 
brace   Fearing  to  waken  the  sleeper,  Madeline  took 


86 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


her  to  the  far  side  of  the  chamber,  near  the  grate, 
and  wrapped  a  warm  shawl  around  the  chilled  limbs. 

"Tell,  me  darling,"  she  repeated.  "How  came 
you  to  leave  your  nurse  ?    What  brought  you  here  ?" 

"Ada  couldn't  sleep,"  said  the  child  piteously, 
"Ada  wanted  mamma." 

"  Dear  little  angel!  God  has  kindly  spared  your 
mamma.  You  shall  have  her  again,  please  Heaven  1 
But  you  ought  not  to  come  out  here  in  the  cold  at 
this  time  of  night.  Why  could  not  you  go  to  sleep, 
baby  ?" 

"  Mamma  said  Ada  must  never  sleep  till  she  had 
said  her  prayers,  and  Ada  did  not  say  them  to  night. 
Jenny  was  cross,  and  covered  her  up  before  she 
could  say  them.  Where  is  my  mamma?  I  want  my 
mamma !" 

"  Poor  child !"  cried  Madeline.  "  It  cannot  see  its 
mamma  to-night.  You  shall  see  her  to-morrow,  dar- 
ling. Come!  Maddy  will  take  you  back  to  bed, 
and  hear  your  prayers.  Then  you  must  go  to  sleep, 
and  when  it  gets  light,  you  may  come  in  here  and 
see  your  mother,  my  pet." 

"  No,  no !  Ada  wants  to  stay.  Let  Ada  go  to  mam- 
ma now !" 

She  looked  toward  the  bed,  and  held  out  her  arms 
pleadingly.  Her  little  lips  quivered  as  if  about  to 
cry,  and  Madeline  trembled  lest  she  should  startle 
the  sick  mother  with  her  screams.  She  was  perplexed 
but  strove  to  soothe  her  with  promises,  which  the  lit- 
tle one  utterly  refused. 

"  If  I  take  you  to  mamma,  and  let  you  kiss  her, 
will  you  then  go  back  with  me  to  the  nursery?"  she 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


87 


questioned.  The  child's  face  lighted  gladly  as  she 
replied : 

"  Oh,  yes,  let  Ada  kiss  mamma !" 

She  took  her  in  her  arms,  and  crossed  the  room 
quietly,  whispering  her  to  be  very  still.  The  child 
was  carried  to  her  mamma,  and  looked  in  wisliful 
hesitation  at  the  thin  face  lying  before  her.  Then 
she  spread  her  little  arms  to  clasp  her  neck  in  glad 
impulse,  forgetful  of  all,  save  that  she  was  with  her 
mother.  Madeline  drew  her  back  in  alarm,  and  a 
cry  of  disappointment  broke  from  her  lips. 

Ora's  eyes  opened  quietly,  and  gazed  upon  the  two 
figures — one  face  marred  by  grief  and  disappoint- 
ment— the  other  with  alarm.  She  recognized  them 
instantly,  and  a  faint  smile  broke  over  her  features  as 
she  tried  to  speak. 

"Baby!  poor  baby.  It  wants  its  mother,"  she 
breathed  weakly.    "  Give  her  to  me,  Madeline." 

Fearing  to  do  more  harm  by  opposition  than  com- 
pliance, the  gentle  nurse  laid  the  child  on  the  spot 
indicated  by  the  mother's  eyes,  and  with  a  cry  of 
satisfaction,  she  nestled  her  bright  head  against  the 
tender  bosom,  and  clasped  her  neck  with  both  arms. 
Ora  looked  up  gratefully  murmuring. 

"  Poor  little  baby !  she  can't  do  without  me.  Have 
I  been  sick  long  ?  I  am  so  weak." 

"Not  very  long.  About  a  week.  But  you  will 
get  well  now,  thank  God.  Do  be  quiet,  though,  dear 
Mrs.  Meredith,  you  must  not  talk.  Shall  I  take  Ada 
away  ?" 

"  No,  no.  Let  her  stay.  She  will  not  disturb  me. 
How  much  trouble  we  must  have  given  you  all."- 


88 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIPE. 


"No  indeed!  Dont  think  of  it.  And  now  you 
must  not  talk.  Go  to  sleep,  and  if  Ada  needs  atten- 
tion, I  will  take  care  of  her.  Now  I  will  lie  down 
with  you  both." 

There  were  few  hours  left  for  rest,  but  ere  day 
dawned,  Madeline  slept  heavily  beside  mother  and 
child.  Ada  went  to  sleep  without  a  word  or  move- 
ment, her  little  longing  heart  at  rest !  No  one  had 
ever  dreamed  that  every  night  the  poor  child  had 
stood  silently  by  the  door  in  her  little  white  gown, 
vainly  hoping  to  get  in,  and  that  the  nurse,  waking 
and  missing  her,  had  sought  and  carried  her  back, 
chilled  to  numbness,  to  her  little  crib.  The  girl  was 
afraid  to  tell,  lest  she  should  be  censured  for  want  of 
watchfulness,  and  it  was  long  ere  they  learned  how 
the  yearning  baby  heart  h.ad  suffered  thus  silently  in 
unchildlike  patience- 


CHAPTER  IX. 


Spring  had  come,  bright  and  beautiful,  and  Ora 
with  her  wan  spiritual  face,  began  to  look  forward 
gladly  to  the  green  freshness  of  earth,  hoping  to  regain 
health  and  strength  with  the  genial  sunshine  and  the 
fragrance  of  flowers.  Charles  Lafarge  in  company 
with  Guy  Bartoni,  had  frequently  called  at  the  house 
since  her  illness,  but  she  had  no  difficulty  in  avoiding 
them  while  yet  an  invalid.  Now  she  was  resuming 
the  old  routine  of  duty,  but  studiously  refused  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  social  arrangements,  as  heretofore. 
Madeline  expostulated  ;  but  she  said  : 

Indeed,  I  feel  so  weak  and  poorly  fitted  for  socie- 
ty, I  had  rather  keep  my  own  room.  You  are  very 
good,  I  know,  and  I  thank  you.  But  think,  dear  Mad- 
eline, of  what  possible  advantage  can  it  be  to  me  to 
be  seen  with  you  by  your  friends,  treated  in  all  re- 
spects one  may  say,  as  an  equal  ?  They  will  wonder 
who  and  what  I  am,  where  I  come  from,  and  all  about 
me.  The  apparent  equality,  will  rouse  curiosity  that 
I  prefer  to  avoid.  My  life  has  been  painful,  and  I 
would  shield  the  Past  from  prying  eyes.  I  cannot  help 
it  if  I  am  over  sensitive.  Suffering  has  made  me  so 
however.  Let  me  be,  sweet  little  friend,  except  such 
times  as  when  you  are  alone.  Then  I  will  join  you 
at  your  meals.  My  evenings  I  would  like  always  to 
spend  alone  after  Ada  goes  to  sleep.  When  you  have 
(89)  8 


90 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


company,  pray  dont  think  of  my  joining  you  at  any 
time," 

This  was  more  than  she  had  ever  said  of  herself 
directly,  since  she  had  been  with  them,  and  Madeline 
drank  it — eagerly.  She  was  alive  with  interest  since 
the  illness  wherein  so  much 'that  was  wild  and  fright- 
ful had  been  murmured,  and  she  longed  for  the  history 
of  the  governess,  more  than  anything  else  on  earth. 
Once  she  had  asked  her  father  to  explain  if  he  could, 
and  he  replied  gravely  :  My  child,  what  I  know,  I 
am  not  at  liberty  to  tell.  She  has  suffered,  but  I  be- 
lieve her  pure  as  an  angel — almost  as  good.  Be 
patient,  love,  and  perhaps  she  will  sometime  explain 
herself,  more  than  I  could  tell  you." 

And  it  was  with  this  hope  increased  that  she  now 
heard  the  words  Ora  dropped  casually.  It  shone 
brightly,  wistfully  from  her  eyes  as  she  regarded  her. 

You  must  do  as  you  like,  of  course,  but  we  feel 
too  much  interest  not  to  wish  to  have  you  with  us 
more,  and  to  have  others  know  you.  They  would  not 
feel  surprised  at  our  regard,  could  they  know  you  as 
we  do." 

"  Ah,  you  are  too  flattering,"  was  the  grateful,  play- 
ful response.  Yet  a  look  of  trouble  flitted  instantly 
over  the  thin  face,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  the 
young  girl  in  half  sorrowful  inquiry. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  me  to  make  you  love,  me  ? 
I  am  not  good ;  I  am  not  very  social  or  lovable  in  any 
particular  way ;  your  own  generous  heart  does  more 
for  me  than  my  merits.  In  fact  I  have  given  you  a 
great  deal  of  trouble,  and  little  else.  I  dont  know 
just  why  you  are  all  so  good  to  me." 


OKA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


91 


'^Come,  you  shall  not  depreciate  yourself.  Nor 
will  I  pamper  j^our  vanity,"  she  added  playfully,  by 
enumerating  the  virtues  that  make  us  love  you.  But 
seriously,  I  want  you  to  be  with  us  more.  Even 
Harry,  who  is  the  oddity  of  our  household,  expressed 
wonder  at  your  severe  seclusion,  and  said  he  missed 
you.  Furthermore,  he  commissioned  me  to  bring  you 
out  of  your  'burrow,'  as  he  termed  it."  The  Teacher's 
brow  flushed  hotly,  and  the  old  light  of  angry  disturb- 
ance came  back  to  her  eyes  Madeline  had  seen  on  the 
night  when  he  suggested  the  stage  as  a  more  lucrative 
profession.  She  recoiled  at  having  reopened  the  wound 
afresh,  and  hastened  to  change  the  conversation. 

It  was  not,  however,  a  memory  of  that  insult  that 
disturbed  her,  but  the  knowledge  that  he  still  pursued 
her  with  that  spirit  of  annoyance  which  was  growing 
so  poignant.  The  faint  hope  that  he  had  forgotten  it 
during  her  illness,  was  swept  away  by  a  single  sen- 
tence. She  knew  well  that  the  household  enemy  stood 
guard  at  the  door  to  aim  at  her  some  poisonous  shaft 
the  very  moment  she  should  emerge  from  the  shelter- 
ing precints  of  her  own  domain. 

Madeline  left  her,  feeling  both  pain  and  disappoint- 
ment. A  long  conversation  tailed  to  win  her  over  to 
her  wishes  in  regard  to  general  intercourse  with  the 
family  and  special  friends,  or  to  gain  any  confidence 
from  her  whatever,  relative  to  her  past  life,  beyond 
what  she  had  said.  Madeline  was  generous  to  a  fault, 
and  not  over  worldly  in  her  mind.  Had  she  been,  she 
could  never  have  expected  society  to  regard  their  gov- 
erness in  the  favorable  light  in  which  she  so  lovingly 
sought  to  place  her.    She  did  not  stop  to  ask  the  rea- 


92  ORA^    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


son  why  people  would  not  accept  as  an  equal,  one 
occupying  a  subordinate  position,  even  though  she 
might  be  considered  as  such,  and  so  treated  in  their 
own  family.  Ora,  gifted,  accomplished  to  a  high  degree, 
noble  in  her  nature  and  true  womanly  principle,  was 
to  society  nothing,  while  she  combined  with  these 
qualities  poverty  and  self  dependence  which  made  it 
necessary  for  her  to  labor  for  her  bread. 

Later  in  the  day,  accident  threw  her  face  to  face 
with  Harry  Clifton  as  she  passed  from  her  own  room 
to  one  on  the  floor  above  on  some  trifling  errand. 
She  flushed  deeply,  then  paled.  She  could  not  look 
upon  her  enemy,  as  she  had  gradually  learned  to  con- 
sider him,  wholly  unmoved.  But  drawing  her  slight 
form  up  haughtily,  she  would  have  passed  with  a  cold 
nod,  had  he  not  interposed  to  stay  her  progress. 

He  held  out  a  hand  to  her  with  a  frank  pleasing 
gesture,  while  his  handsome  face  lighted  as  if  w^ith 
genuine  pleasure. 

"  How  nice  it  seems  to  see  you  out  again,  Mrs. 
Meredith,"  he  exclaimed.  I  declare,  the  house  be- 
gan to  assume  a  funeral-like  aspect  while  you  were 
ill.  You  are  growing  stronger  now  though,  and  we 
all  hope  to  see  you  in  your  accustomed  places  again. 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  we  miss  your  little  quiet  figure 
amongst  us.  You  are  keeping  yourself  too  close  en- 
tirely.   Come  out  now,  and  have  exercise  witH  us." 

"Thank  you,  sir."  She  returned  politely  but  with 
a  tinge  of  coldness  she  could  not  melt,  in  her  tones. 
''You  are  kind,  but  I  am  still  indisposed  for  society 
where  1  can  avoid  it." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly. 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


93 


"  I  see,"  he  said  bluntly,  "  You  have  never  forgiven 
me  for  that  rude  speech  of  mine.  May  I  ask  it  now?'' 

"  There  is  no  need,  Mr.  Clifton.  I  never  remember 
such  trifles  to  any  one's  prejudice  and  had  nearly  for- 
gotten the  circumstance  entirely." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ?  You  do  not  like  my  society,  and 
since  you  have  recovered,  are  more  persistently  cold 
and  unapproachable  than  previously.  Why  do  you 
avoid  me  ?  I  have  not  seen  you  to  speak  half  a  dozen 
words  since  you  left  your  room  to  resume  your  school 
duties. 

Ora  evaded  a  direct  reply,  and  with  an  excuse, 
forced  her  way  past  him  and  left  his  presence.  He 
looked  after  her,  the  light  on  his  face  changing  to  one 
of  deep  displeasure. 

'^By  the  Lord,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath, 
"  That  woman  is  a  riddile  I  will  solve  yet.  She  puz- 
zles,— she  interests  me  strangely  with  her  beautiful 
face  and  haughty  manner.  I'll  solve  that  mystery 
around  her,  or  my  head  shall  lose  its  cunning.  How 
she  tantalizes  me !  Gentle,  loving  and  tender  to  all 
others — I  have  seen  it !  To  me,  cold  as  ice  and  sharp 
as  steel.  Here  is  metal  worth  trying.  Let  me  prove 
it  and  see  if  it  is  true  throughout." 

He  went  down  stairs,  took  his  hat  from  the  stand  in 
the  hall,  and  went  out  upon  the  street. 

It  was  warm  and  bright  without,  and  the  streets 
were  thronged.  He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  met 
Guy  and  Charlie,  as  he  now  familiarly  called  the  lat- 
ter.   His  greeting  was  warm  and  really  joyous. 

Halloo!  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  gentlemen !"  he 
tfaid  extending  to  each  a  hand.      Out  sunning  your- 


94 


ORA^    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


selves,  eh  ?  Beautiful  day,  isn't  it.  What  a  lucky 
fellow  I  am  to  have  met  you  just  here.  It  is  near  by, 
and  I  have  just  got  somd  paintings  home  I  want  you 
to  look  at.  Come  round  and  give  me  your  opinion  of 
them." 

With  all  the  pleasure  imaginable,"  responded 
Guy.  Charlie  acquiesced  readily,  and  the  three  pro- 
ceeded to  Dr.  Clifton's. 

Madeline  was  out,  and  they  went  up  to  the  gallery 
of  which  the  family  were  justly  proud.  Paintings  were 
Harry's  especial  passion,  and  he  never  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity to  increase  the  store  already  collected  so  happily 
in  the  long  room  where  the  lights  and  shadows  fell 
upon  them  so  advantageously. 

Sometime  passed  in  their  examination  and  criticism. 
Guy's  taste  was  fine,  and  his  remarks  very  discrimina- 
ting. Leaving  them  for  a  moment  on  a  slight  pretext, 
Harry  lightly  descended  by  a  private  stairway,  camo 
out  'in  the  hall  leading  past  the  music  room  and  en- 
tered one  beyond,  as  if  on  some  errand.  The  one 
glance  directed  within,  showed  him  the  young  teacher 
in  a  far  corner,  selecting  some  music,  with  Agnes  by 
her  side.  He  knew  it  was  her  usual  hour  for  giving 
her  pupil  a  lesson  in  vocal  music,  and  had  made  his 
calculations  nicely.  In  a  moment  he  returned  to  the 
gallery.  '  . 

''Well,  have  you  done  here,  Guy?  How  do  you 
like  the  collection  as  a  whole.  You  are  a  good  judge. 
Tell  me  frankly." 

''It  cannot  be  surpassed  in  any  private  gallerj^  in 
New  York,"  was  the  reply,  made  from  honest  convic- 
tion.   "  Some  of  these  are  of  the  grandest  and  rarest 


OR  A,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  95 

works  to  be  found.  I  cannot  express  the  appreciation 
I  feel  of  their  great  value." 

Thank  you,  Guy.  Your  compliment  is  very  grati- 
fying. I  have  one  more  I  should  like  to  show  you.  It 
hangs  in  the  music  room,  and  represents  a  young  girl 
seated  by  a  stream  near  the  base  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, playing  upon  a  Harp.  It  looks  strangely  out 
of  place  here,  but  the  workmanship  is  superb.  A  long 
line  of  emigrant's  wagons  and  large  groups  in  the  back 
ground  of  rough  looking  men  and  w^omen,  explain  her 
presence,  but  she  appears  set  apart  by  her  dress,  habits 
and  exceeding  beauty  from  the  others.  Come  and  see 
it." 

He  led  the  way,  and  the  others  followed  with  inter- 
est to  see  the  picture.  At  the  threshold  Harry  slighly 
paused  to  say : 

''Pardon,  Mrs.  Meredith.  I  am  going  to  show 
these  gentlemen  a  painting  that  is  here.  We  will  not 
long  intrude." 

He  turned  toward  the  painting  as  he  uttered  the 
apology,  but  his  glance  never  quitted  her  face  for  an 
instant  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  pile  of  music  on 
a  stand  beside  her,  and  encountered  the  strangers. 
Then  he  saw  her  pale  and  gasp  for  breath  as  on  a 
previous  occasion.  Guy  and  Charlie  stood  as  if  rooted 
to  the  spot.  The  former  took  a  few  hasty  strides  for- 
ward Glendora !  Can  it  be  !  For  Heaven's  sake  how 
came  you  here?" 

His  face  was  as  pale  as  hers, — his  eyes  wild  and 
full  of  passionate  light.  Harry  took  it  all  in  w^ith  an 
inward  exultation  admirably  covered  by  a  show  of 
extreme  surprise. 


96 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"So  you  are  acquainted,  after  all,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Why,  Mrs.  Meredith,  how  is  all  this  %  I  should  have 
thought  you  would  have  recognized  Mr.  Bartoni  when 
you  saw  him  before." 

The  first  deep,  sharp,  bitter  sting  of  the  wound  was 
over  now.  The  deed  was  hopelessly  done.  There 
was  no  escape.  Anger  at  the  perpetrator  of  the  mis- 
chief was  the  best  remedy  she  could  have  had  for  the 
gaping  wound.  She  turned  a  scathing  glance  upon 
him  as  he  stood  before  her. 

''Did  I  ever  profess  not  to  know  him,  Mr.  Clifton? 
You  never  asked  me  if  he  was  known  to  me.  But 
had  you  not  done  what  you  have  to-day,  it  would  have 
been  better  for  all  concerned.  Guy  Bartoni,  I  have  no 
words  to  say  to  you,  sir,"  she  said  firmly  and  with  icy 
dignity,  and  turning  with  haughty  mien  to  leave  them. 
No  one  strove  to  detain  her.  The  incident  fell  like  a 
blow  upon  the  two  visitors  and  the  poor  victim. 
Harry  saw  his  advantage,  and  for  the  time  being,  was 
elated  with  his  success. 

Guy  turned  and  strode  rapidly  to  a  window,  where 
he  stood  for  several  moments  in  deep  thought.  He 
was  evidently  disturbed  to  an  intense  degree,  but  in  a 
few  moments  he  came  back  looking  serious — almost 
sad. 

Harry,  is  that  the  governess  of  whom  I  have  heard 
so  much  ?  Is  that  your  sister's  and  my  betrothed's 
bosom  friend.   Tell  me  that  it  is  not  so?" 

''  But  it  is  so  !  Why?  For  Heaven's  sake,  explain 
this  mystery  !" 

Bartoni  turned  again  and  strode  heavily  over  the 
floor.    Then  he  came  back  and  said  regretfully : 


ORA,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  97 

"  Harry,  I  am  the  last  man  on  earth  to  cast  snspi- 
cion  on  the  fair  fame  of  a  woman.  I  would  not  <]o  it 
now,  but  it  is  just  to  you  to  say  that  she  is  no  lit  in- 
mate for  this  house,  and  I  know  it." 

His  glance  bore  a  deeper  significance  than  his 
words. 

"  Good  Heaven's  !  Can  it  be  possible !"  The  young 
man's  tones  were  full  of  indignation  ;  but  neither  Ora 
or  Guy  had  worn  a  whiter  face  than  his  at  that  mo- 
ment. He  had  gone  too  far,  and  without  knowinr^  it 
planted  a  dagger  in  his  own  heart  which  he  dreamed 
not  of  till  he  felt  the  sting  of  its  wound. 

"  Guy  !  this  matter  must  be  fully  explained  now," 
he  said  huskily.  "  This  is  no  time  for  false  modesJy 
or  quibbling.  You  must  tell  both  my  father  and  my. 
self  what  you  know." 

_   "Is  not  my  word  sufficient,  Harry?    lhave  said  she 
18  no  fat  inmate  for  this  house,  and  my  friend,  Charles 
Lafarge  will  bear  me  out  in  the  assertion,  if  you  need 
■  tarther  evidence  than  this." 

His  tone  was  cold  and  offended. 
"  Pardon  me  Guy.  I  do  not  mean  to  doubt  your 
word,  but  it  is  not  enough.  Tell  me  all~when  and 
where  you  knew  her.  I  may  be  excused  my  perti- 
nacity under  the  circumstances.  She  has  long  been  an 
inmate  of  the  house,  favored  by  the  family  as  one  of 
us  and  I  would  knovv  whom  we  have  thus  favored  in 
all  the  particulars." 

"You  are  pertinacious,  truly,"  said  Guv,  annoyed 
beyond  his  patience.  He  had  gone  as  far  as  he  wish- 
ed, but  he  was  now  compelled  beyond  his  limit  "  But 
smce  you  wish  it,  I  will  tell  you  that  I  met  her  in  a 


98 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Southern  City,  where  she  appeared  to  be  in  extreme 
want.  I  know  nothing  of  her  history  beyond  the  fact 
that  she  was  separated  from  her  husband.  I  cannot 
affirm  the  cause,  tho'  evil  minded  people  might  easily 
construe  it  in  an  uncharitable  light  from  her  subse- 
quent life.  I  will  not  enlarge  her  faults.  Want  has 
much  to  do  with  sin  and  its  accompaniment  of  misery. 
I  pitied  her  from  my  soul,  and  aided  her  in  a  measure. 
But  I  have  said  enough.    Will  it  suffice  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  One  thing  more,  however  1  What  name 
did  she  bear  ? 

I  declare,  I  have  forgotten  all  but  the  first,  which 
is  Glendora.    Do  you  remember  it  Charlie?" 

"  Dumont,  I  think"  said  the  other  readily. 
Enough !"  cried  Harry  turning  from  the  room. 
"Gentlemen,  we  will  seek  my  father." 

The  three  young  men  proceeded  down  stairs  with 
various  emotions.  Harry  was  still  white  and  his 
ej^es  looked  stony.  He  could  not  recede  now  from 
the  path  he  had  entered,  and  he  summoned  all  his 
courage  to  get  through.  Guy  was  angry  and  uneasy, 
yet  forced  to  appear  calmly  quiescent.  Charles  Lafarge 
looked  pained  and  deeply  disturbed. 

Dr.  Clifton  looked  up  from  some  papers  as  his 
son  entered  accompanied  by  the  young  men.  He 
saw  instantly,  that  something  unusual  had  occurred, 
and  questioned  them  in  the  first  moment' as  to  the^ 
cause. 

Harry,  Guy,  what  has  happened?"  The  son's  voice 
was  very  husky  as  he  repeated  the  little  incident  of  the 
afternoon,  and  its  results.  The  Dr.  listened  in  bewil- 
derment.   Guy  confirmed  all  that  Harry  said,  with 


ORA,   THE   LOST   WIFJi.  99 

some  further  particulars,  and  then  a  deep  silence  fell 
upon  the  whole  party. 

Five,  ten  minutes  passed.  The  old  man  paced  the 
room  thoughtfully— the  son  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a 
window,  his  face  hidden  from  the  inmates.  Tlie  two 
gentlemen  sat  uneasily  awaiting  the  issue  of  this  event. 

At  last  the  Dr.  heaved  a  heavy,  painful  sigh.  There 
were  traces  of  tears  on  his  cheek  as  he  looked  up  and 
said : 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  believe  what  you  both  so 
strongly  assert,  but  if  any  others  had  said  it  of  her  I 
should  have  turned  them  from  my  door  as  villianous 
slanderers.    I  know  Guy,  that  your  interest  is  linked 
with  ours,  and  cannot  think  you  actuated  by  other  than 
pure  motives  in  this  revelation.    It  seems  almost  im- 
possible, though.    She  is  so  fair,  so  lovely,  so  hio-h 
minded.    Few  have  her  intellect  and  strong  womanly 
traits  of  character.    It  is  hard  to  think  her  aught  but 
what  18  spotlessly  pure  and  good.    Here  her  deport- 
ment  has  ever  been  that  of  a  lady.    How  hard  it  seems 
now,  good  as  she  has  been  in  our  eyes,  to  turn  her 
out  into  the  cold  world.    Yet  we  must  do  it,  I  sud- 
pose."  ^ 

There  was  much  sorrow,  but  neither  anger  or  indig- 
nation m  his  tones.  Had  he  searched  his  great  gen- 
erous heart,  he  would  have  seen  how  utterly  it  denied 
a  belief  in  the  vile  tale  to  destroy  a  good,  true  woman 

At  length  the  young  men  escaped,  glad  to  be  free 
and  Harry  went  to  his  room  with  a  heavy  load  upon 
his  heart,  while  his  father  sought  his  daughter  The 
father  attributed  the  stern  hard  look  and  manner  of 
his  son,  to  anger  at  the  supposed  deception,  but  could 


• 


100 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


he  have  followed  him  to  his  room  and  watched  him 
there  in  his  misery  and  self  reproach,  he  would  have 
been  enlightened  strangely. 

At  the  moment  when  Harry  Clifton  had  reached 
forth  his  hand,  and  in  his  cruel,  wilful  might,  smote 
her  from  the  fair  pedestal  on  which  she  stood,  he 
found  that  he  loved  her  better  than  his  own  life ! 

Ah  !  Blind,  wilful  mortality  !   How  mad  we  are  ! 


OHAPTEE  X. 

By  what  singular  circumstances  was  that  once 
happy  mansion  the  shelter  of  misery,  where  all 
should  have  been  joy.  And  still  more  singular,  that 
one  single  being  with  a  want  of  manly  principle, 
should  have  done  it  all.  It  was  through  Guy  Bartoni 
that  the  poor  governess  first  felt  a  keen  sense  of  an- 
guish. Through  him  Lina  had  suffered  for  a  brief 
space  of  time  which  plunged  others  as  well  as  her- 
self in  misery.  And  now  through  him  they  were  all 
suffering  together.  The  Dr.  found  Madeline  at  last 
engaged  in  domestic  duties,  and  calling  her  into  the 
Library  imparted  to  her  the  story  he  had  heard.  She 
was  wild  with  grief  and  indignant  astonishment. 
She  could  not  credit  the  story,  yet  her  lover  had  told 
the  tale,  and  in  the  recognition,  there  was  too  much 
proof.  She  remembered  too,  how  Ora  had  avoided 
Guy  on  various  pretexts,  and  bringing  to  mind  every- 


OR  A,  THE  LOST  WiFK.  JQl 

thing,  together  with  her  own  can  lid  sliUci.u.nt  of  a 
painful  past  into  which  she  could  not  allow  the  curi- 
ous to  pry,  she  found  a  dark  array  against  which 
her  confused  brain  strove  vainly  to  combat  The 
struggle  was  harder  since  it  was  between  the  two- 
her  friend,  as  she  had  fondly  called  her,  and  her 
over.    Could  she  doubt  him,  one  whom  she  loved  as 
ife?   Besides,  what  did  she  know  of  Ora  to  dispute 
her  lovers  truth  in  regard  to  her.    She  was  alone, 
fnendless,wrapped  in  a  vail  of  mystery  none  could 
lathom.    Conviction  struggled  hard  with  her  love  and 
generous  feelings.    She  thought  of  everything  that 
had  occurred  since  her  arrival  at  the  house,  and  with 
all  the  evidence  against  her,  for  her  life,  she  could 
not  think  of  the  patient,  quiet,  self-possessed  and  lov- 
ing woman  as  other  than  pure,  spotless,  high  souled. 
,  ihere  seemed  an  atmosphere  about  her  elevatino-  in 
Itself.    All  had  felt  it  who  even  came  in  contact  with 
her.    How  could  she  bring  herself  to  turn  coldly 
away  and  cast  her  from  her  heart?" 

Yet  the  world  would  hear  of  this,  and  now  for  the 
sake     others,  she  remembered  what  course  it  would 
pursue  toward  her  if  she  dared  to  harbor  one  on  whom 
the  blighting  breath  of  suspicion  had  fallen.  For 
her  sisters  sake,  she  must  cast  all  other  thoughts  and 
feelings  aside,  and  act  the  hard,  cold  woman  of  the 
world-turn  a  lonely  woman  out  into  its  mists  in  the 
storm  and  the  whirlpool  of  life  with  none  to  trust- 
none  to  save,  if  the  billows  grew  too  strong  for  her  ' 
woman  s  power  to  combat !    What  bitter,  bitter  tears 
foil  from  the  brown  eyes!  what  agony  stirred  the 
noble  woman's  heart  in  the  girlish  bosom! 


102 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


The  conflict  grew  stronger  as  thought  worked 
laboriously  through  the  dark  mists.  Wearied,  over- 
come with  it,  she  sank  by  her  father's  side  and  wept 
passionately. 

"  Oh,  papa,  what  can  we  do  ?  I  can  never  tell  her 
to  go!  I  could  not  bear  to  repeat  this  story  to  her! 
She  seems  so  good,  so  true !  Oh,  papa,  can  you  believe 
it?" 

"  Daughter,  daughter,  Lina,  darling,  be  more  calm. 
How  can  we  help  it?  It  is  very  painful.  lamas 
willing  to  discredit  it  as  you  can  be,  but  the  proof  is 
too  strong.  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  she  told 
me  of  herself,  and  I  confess  that  I  cannot  bring  my 
mind  to  view  her  story  as  false.  Yet  the  two  will 
not  run  together  wholly.  She  may  have  left  out  the 
part  I  have  just  heard,  and  related  the  truth  in  the 
part  she  did  reveal.  Yet  if  it  he  true,  I  cannot  be- 
lieve this  of  her,  for  it  seems  so  opposite  to  the  course 
she  pursued  all  her  young  life.  I  would  I  had  the 
power  to  investigate  the  whole  affair." 

"It  would  be  but  just.  And  yet,"  said  the  girl 
while  a  hot  flush  stained  her  cheeks.  "  I  should  not 
gay  so,  perhaps,  since  my  words  imply  a  doubt  of 
Guy's  veracity." 

"  Madeline,"  said  the  father  tenderly.  "  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith is  a  poor  lonely,  and  if  we  cast  her  off — a  friend- 
less woman.  She  has  suffered  deeply,  I  do  surely 
believe.  I  have  always  thought  that  suffering  caused 
by  the  wrong  of  others  to  herself.  Not  from  any 
wrong  she  ever  did  to  any  one.  More  than  this,  she 
has  a  little  helpless  child,  who  will  share  the  mother's 
blight  out  in  the  world.    Now,  supposing  Guy  was 


OKA,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  103 

mistaken.  Would  it  not  be  more  wortliy  in  us  to  in- 
vestigate and  prove  this  mistake  than  bring  so  much 
shame  and  suffering  on  a  lonely  struggliirg  woman? 
And  we  will  suppose  further.  Now  mind,  my  child,  I 
am  only  supposing  a  case !  ' 
"Well,  supposing,  I  say,  Guy  for  some  motive,  should 
have  wronged  her,  seeing  her  powerless  to  refute  this 
charge.  Would  you  not  rather  know  it  now,  than 
after  your  marriage  with  him  ?" 
''PapaP' 

Madeline's  eyes  looked  up  at  him  through  her 
tears,  in  utter  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  tell  me,  do  you  suspect  Guy  of  any  hidden 
motive  !  Do  you  doubt  his  truth  ?  For  mercy's  sake 
tell  me !"  ' 

"  No,  Lina,  no !"  he  answered  veiy  sadly.  "  I  have 
done  wrong  to  put  such  a  case  to  yon,  my  child.  I 
hardly  know  why  I  did  it,  I'm^  sure.  But  for  this 
woman  my  heart  is  full  of  pity.  I  am  in  a  quandary 
how  to  act.  God  help  us  that  we  do  not  wrong  her, 
bitterly  wrong  her !"  ' 

Farther  and  farther  down  into  these  two  noble 
hearts,  the  good  Angel  was  working.  Gradually  the 
purest,  sweetest  fountains  were  reached,  and  flowed 
forth  at  the  touch,  a  divine  wave  of  Oharitu  that 
overflowed  and  exalted  them.  The  maiden's'heart 
was  all  aglow  with  it.  The  lips  first  to  speak  the 
sentiment. 

"Father,  we  must  not  send  her  out  into  the  world 
yet.  Let  us  investigate  the  matter  fully.  Bid  Guy, 
Harry,  all.  of  our  household  who  have  heard  this 
thing,  be  quiet  for  a  little  time.    We  must  get  at  the 


104 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


exact  truth  before  we  dare  to  turn  against  one  of 
God's  children,  and  she  laboring  so  faithfully  and 
bravely  under  our  very  eyes,  in  the  path  of  right. 
Guy  is  a  strong  man,  as  you  say.  She  a  weak  woman. 
Let  me  be  unselfish  and  above  all,  true  to  my  own 
sex.  I  will  .not  turn  from  her  and  leave  her  to  die  in 
shame,  unloved,  uncared  for.  What  might  be  her 
fate,  should  she  go  away  from  us  ?  What  may  we 
not  spare  her  if  she  stays  ?  And,  oh !  if  it  should 
prove  false,  though  my  heart  should  break,  all  my 
life  I  should  thank  God  for  the  Truth, 

My  brave,  my  noble  child  !  God  bless  you,  dar- 
ling!" 

Dr.  Clifton's  eyes  brimmed  till  the  tears  fell  on  the 
bright  brown  hair  falling  over  his  knees,  and  he  bent 
with  fervent,  tender  reverence  to  press  a  kiss  on  the 
spotless  brow.- 

But  let  us  follow  Ora. 

Crushed,  quivering,  almost  stunned  beneath  the 
blow,  she  staggered  to  her  room  and  threw  herself 
upon  her  knees,  helpless  from  the  tide  of  anguish 
sweeping  over  her.  Pride  and  anger  had  sustained 
her  till  beyond  the  sight  of  the  trio.  Now  she  re- 
coiled from  the  blow  she  had  received,  with  a  low 
wail  of  intense  agony.  She  had  encountered  her 
deadly  foe,  face  to  face.  He  was  the  dread  and  the 
bane  of  her  life.  He  held  ruin  for  her  in  his  cruel 
hands.  He  too,  was  in  her  power.  He  would  inter- 
pose her  danger  as  a  shield  between  them.  He  w^as 
a  man,  desperate,  unprincipled.  She  a  woman,  weak 
and  powerless.  If  there  was  war  between  them, 
might,  not  right  would  conquer.    She  knew  that  ho 


OEA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


105 


was  afraid  of  her,  and  that  he  would  not  hesitate  at 
any  means  to  put  her  from  his  path.  A  dark  cloud 
was  over  her  head.  She  felt  the  icy  chill  of  the 
storm  already.  Oh,  when  and  where  would  it  all 
end! 

A  little  arm  stole  around  her  neck,  a  little  hot  face 
stained  with  tears  of  passionate  grief,  was  laid  against 
her  own.  The  storm  in  the  bosom  of  Agnes  Montes, 
child  though  she  was,  was  awful. 

"  Oh !  dear,  dear  Mrs.  Meredith !  That  man  has 
foully  belied  you!  I  could  murder  him!  Oh,  I  would 
laugh  in  joy  this  minute  to  trample  his  heart  under 
my  feet.  He  is  blacker  than  sin.  He  is  sin  itself! 
They  did  not  notice  me.  I  heard  it  all,  and  I  wanted 
to  kill  him  then !  I  always  said  he  was  a  bad  man  ! 
He  is  a  terrible  man  !  Oh,  the  black,  black  slander  ! 
If  I  am  a  little  girl,  I  know  how  dreadfully  he  injured 
you.  I  heard  him  tell  Harry  that  you  were  no  fit 
inmate  for  this  house,  and  then  he  said  you  were 
parted  from  your  husband,  and  he  had  saved  you 
from  want.  He  hinted  other  awful  things,  too,  and  I 
thought  my  brain  would  burst  while  he  stood  there 
and  talked !  Harry  was  white  as  death  with  passion, 
and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  murder  him  too,  and  that  other 
man  !  Oh,  I  knew  that  Guy  Bartoni  would  bring  a 
curse  to  this  house  and  he  has  brought  it !" 

All  this  was  uttered  with  a  passionate  vehemence 
and  rapidity  beyond  description.  Ora  lifted  her  white 
face  and  gazed  awe  stricken  upon  the  frail  author  of 
this  terrible  outburst.  From  the  child's  lips  her  fears 
were  confirmed.  His  first  step  was  an  efi*ort  to  blast 
her  fair  fame,  and  hurl  her  from  his  path  by  that 


106 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


means.  The  frightful  falsehood  had  been  uttered. 
It  would  be  believed.  She  was  powerless  to  bring 
proof  against  it.  Already  shame  was  flowing  in  upon 
her  life,  and  would  soon  overwhelm  her.  What  mat- 
tered it  "  if  she  was  innocent,  if  they  lelievcd  her 
guilty."  Her  punishment  would  be  the  same.  What 
mattered  it  then  ?  Ah  I  much  to  her  own  pure  soul ! 
Nothing  to  the  world,  where  there  was  a  semblance 
of  evil. 

"  God  help  me  !  God  pity  me  !"  she  cried,  and  the 
little  child  gathered  the  white  face  against  her  bosom 
and  the  two  sobbed  together — prayed  together  till 
darkness  had  shrouded  all  things  in  a  common 
mantle. 

Then  Ora  shook  ofi*  the  torpor  that  was  creeping 
over  her,  and  re'Bolutely  roused  herself  to  action.  She 
had  faith  in  Madeline's  love,  and  perhaps  the  Dr.  who 
had  ever  been  so  kind  to  her,  would  not  wholly  dis- 
credit the  story  he  had  heard  from  her  lips  in  the 
beginning.  She  started  up  hopefully,  with  a  wild 
impulse  to  go  to  them  and  appeal  to  their  sense  of 
justice  against  this  wrong,  but  recoiled  with  a  cry 
when  she  remembered  that  she  would  be  appealing 
to  them  against  a  son — a  lover.  Would  not  the  Dr's 
eyes  look  coldly  upon  her,  while  Madeline's  lips 
would  wreathe  in  scorn  and  anger?  Could  they  be- 
lieve her  before  him?  Too  long,  through  motives  of 
delicacy  and  fear,  she  had  failed  to  warn  the  gentle 
girl  against  this  villian,  hearing;  her  storj^  of  love, 
seeing  it  go  on  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week 
in  silence.  Now  they  would  deem  it  a  fabrication 
raised  up  in  self  defense.    Their  incredulous  scorn 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


107 


would  kill  her !  She  dared  not  go  to  them  now !  Too 
late  she  saw  the  fatal  mistake,  and  must  bear  the 
consequences  of  her  foUy. 

Another  wild  whirl  of  passionate  feeling  eeizod 
her.  She  could  not  bear  companionship  in  such  a 
painful  state  of  mind,  and  calming  herself  with  a 
mighty  effort,  she  kissed  her  little  child  friend  ten- 
derly, fervently,  and  sent  her  from  her. 

"  Go  darling,"  she  said.  "  To  me  your  sympntliy 
is  precious  as  life  itself,  for  it  is  all  I  have  in  my  sor- 
row ;  but  it  is  wrong  for  me  to  let  you  suffer  so  for  my 
sake.  Don't  be  so  distressed,  Aggie.  God  will  help 
me  where  He  sees  me  so  wronged  and  friendless ! 
Go,  my  pet!" 

Oh,  please  don't  send  me  away,"  begged  the  little 
creature.  "  It  kills  me  to  think  of  you  all  alone  here, 
crying  and  suffering  without  anybody  !  I  dont  care 
what  they  say  !  I  do  love  you  !  I  will  love  you  better 
than  anything  in  the  world  !  Oh,  let  me  stay  with 
you !  you  will  feel  better  if  you  let  me  put  my  arms 
around  your  neck  and  stay  by  you  ;  for  then  you'll 
feel  how  I  love  you,  and  wont  be  so  lonely  in  your 
trouble?    Oh,  do  let  me  stay!" 

"  Dear,  blessed  Aggie  !  Devoted  friend  !  Thank 
God  for  this  one,  at  least!"  murmured  Ora  clasping 
the  devoted  girl  in  her  arms. 

"  But,  Agnes,"  she  continued,  "I  must  send  you 
away,  because  it  is  better  for  us  both." 

"If  you  stay  here  to  talk  to  me  this  way,  and  fondle 
over  me,  I  shall  never  gain  self  control  enough  to 
meet  with  what  may  be  yet  to  come.  Go  to  your  room 
and  bathe  this  poor  little  hot  face,  and  then  knee]  * 


108 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


down  and  pray  God  to  aid  us  both.  You  may  come 
to  me  again  bye  and  bye." 

Without  another  word,  Agnes  obeyed  her  teacher 
and  quitted  the  room.  All  the  whole  force  of  her 
strong  nature  centered  in  her  love  for  her  governess. 
She  would  have  died  to  serve  her  in  her  distress,  and 
seeing  how  she  might  help  her  by  submitting  to  her 
wishes,  she  no  longer  refused  to  go  away,  and  passed 
out  quietly,  casting  a  wistful,  lingering  look  of  love 
upon  the  suffering  face  as  she  departed. 

Buried  in  bitter  reflections,  poor  Ora  sat  still  and 
mute  where  Agnes  had  left  her.  She  thought  of 
nothing  but  her  misery,  heeded  nothing,  until  a  slight 
rustle  at  the  door  made  her  look  up.  A  folded  paper 
was  slipped  beneath  and  lay  upon  the  carpet,  and 
with  a  strange,  sickening  sensation  of  fear,  she  scarce 
knew  why,  she  lifted  it  and  went  to  the  gas  which 
she  turned  up  as  brightly  as  her  eyes  could  bear  in 
their  weak  state.  Then  she  unfolded  the  sheet  with 
trembling  fingers.  The  writing  was  clear  and  bold, 
but  hastily  written  as  if  under  a  sudden  impulse. 
Her  heart  beat  heavily,  and  lier  eyes  grew  wild  as 
she  read  : 

"Ora  Meredith, this  hour  has  revealed  to  me  a  fu- 
ture dark  with  utter  misery.  I  have  had  my  eyes 
opened  to  a  truth  of  which,  in  my  willful  blindness, 
I  never  even  dreamed.  I  never  paused  to  ask  myself 
why  I  loved  to  watch  you  in  your  quiet,  queenly 
beauty,  or  followed  you  with  my  curious  gaze,  long- 
ing to  get  down  amid  the  mysteries  of  your  life.  1 
loved  to  annoy  you,  and  have  used  rudeness  many 
times  for  that  means.    Nothing  to  me  seemed  so 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


109 


grand  as  to  see  those  blue  eyes  flash,  and  your  skaider 
form  rise  to  a  queenly  dignity,  while  the  steel-true 
spirit  of  the  woman,  caused  ever  sharp,  yet  faultless 
retorts  to  fall  from  your  lips.  Day  after  day  I  sou;^]it 
to  know  you,  but  you  have  ever  held  aloof— avoided 
me — now  I  feel,  justly.  I  knew  it  then,  but  it  only 
stimulated  me  the  more.  When  Guy  Bartoni  came 
here  on  that  evening  when  I  used  so  gross  an  in- 
sult to  wound  your  sensitive  feelings,  I  knew  that  he 
was  known  to  you,  and  I  resolved  to  find  out  from 
him  and  you  the  secret  of  that  knowledge.  It  has 
been  a  fixed  purpose,  whose  accomplishment  has 
sealed  my  doom,  for  in  the  hour  that  I  learned  your 
shame,  I  learned  too,  that  I  loved  you,  wildly,  pas- 
sionately, madly!  God  help  me!  I  would  give  my 
life  to  undo  what  I  have  done.  And  yet,  can  you 
not  refute  this  awful  slander — for  slander  I  would 
fain  believe  it.  Come  forward,  and  prove  your  inno- 
cence, for  God's  sake  !  Or  give'  me  the  power  to  do 
it  for  you.  Tell  me  that  you  are  what  you  have 
seemed  to  us — a  widow.  Tell  me  that  you  have  no 
husband  living !  Tell  me  where  and  when  you  saw 
this  man,  and  though  he  were  my  own  brother,  I  will 
go  to  the  earth's  end  to  prove  your  truth  against  him. 
I  conjure  you,  by  all  you  hold  de?tr  to  you,  to  listen 
to  me,  and  let  me  be  your  friend.  Forgive  me  for 
the  wild  confusion  of  my  love !  I  cannot  help  it! 
This  hour  has  caused  revolution  in  my  whole  life. 
Worthy  or  unworthy,  it  is  centered  in  you  I" 

"  Merciful  God  !  this  to  follow !  Oh,  what  will 
come  next." 

Sick,  bewildered,  she  sank  down,  grasping  the  epis- 


110 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


tie  in  cold,  rigid  lingers.  She  was  stunned  by  this 
new  phase  of  trouble.  Was  it  only  a  fresh  insult, 
intended  as  a  final  sting,  to  thus  ofier  her  his  love,  or 
rather  to  declare  and  thrust  it  upon  her  in  her  last 
extremity  of  sorrow?  Or  was  he  in  earnest,  and  felt 
in  reality,  the  desire  to  clear  her  fame  from  the  foul 
aspersion?  Any  way,  she  could  but  take  it  as  th6 
last  drop  added  to  a  bitter  cup.  Now,  more  than 
ever,  it  was  beyond  her  reach  to  attempt  exonerating 
herself.  To  tell  them  now,  would  appear  a  desire  to 
clear  herself  for  his  sake.  She  dared  not  do  it. 
There  was  but  one  course  left  her.  She  must  go 
away  from  the  house.  This  was  no  longer  a  place 
for  her,  even  if  they,  in  their  generosity  would  allow 
her  to  remain.  Her  pride  rose  up  with  bitter  rebel- 
lion at  the  thought  of  being  turned  away  from  this 
once  peaceful  haven.  She  felt  overwhelmed  with 
shame  at  the  thought.  An  impulse  to  leave  the 
place  silently,  quietly,  before  they  had  an  opportunity 
to  send  her  forth,  seized  her ;  but  would  this  be  bet- 
ter, to  creep  away  like  the  guilty  thing  they  deemed 
her,  afraid  to  brave  their  just  indignation?  Here, 
pride  again  revolted.    "What  could  she  do  ? 

She  was  still  undecided,  and  lost  in  perplexity, 
when  Jenny  brought  Ada  in  to  put  her  to  bed.  Be- 
fore the  girl,  Ora  strove  hard  to  appear  as  usual. 
She  could  not  bear  that  servants  should  see  and  com- 
ment upon  her  misery. 

During  the  process  of  disrobing,  little  Ada's  eyes 
rested  wistfully  upon  her  mother's  face.  When  Jen- 
ny had  robed  her  in  her  night  dress,  she  sprang  from 
her  lap,  and  struggling  with  its  long  folds,  reached  her 


ORAj    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


Ill 


mother's  feet,  where  she  sank  on  her  knees,  and  lifted 
her  little  folded  hands  ready  to  say  her  nightly  prayer. 

Ora's  tones  faltered  with  intensity  of  feeling,  as 
she  repeated  the  simple,  beautifid  prayer  which  ox- 
presses  all  the  human  heart  could  ask  for — "  Our 
Father."  The  baby  tones  followed,  clear  and  sweet 
in  their  infantile  lispings,but  the  little  petitioner  did 
not  rise  when  she  had  done.  Her  great  eyes  looked 
up  eagerly  in  the  troubled  face  above  her. 

"Mamma,  may  Ada  pray  herself?" 

"  Yes,  darling.  What  does  my  little  daughter  want 
to  pray  for?"  asked  the  mother  surprised  and  serious. 

The  child  again  folded  her  hands  and  the  long 
lashes  veiled  the  blue  eyes,  while  the  sweet  tones 
repeated  earnestly: 

"  Oh  Dod,  bless  my  pretty  mamma,  and  dont  let 
anybody  hurt  her,  or  make  her  ky." 

Mrs.  Meredith  caught  the  little  creature  to  her 
bosom  convulsively,  thrilled  to  the  heart  by  the  baby 
prayer  for  protection.  The  eyes  of  love,  even  when 
understanding  not,  had  penetrated  the  cloud  that 
shrouded  her  life,  and  the  pure  little  heart  sent  up 
its  plea  for  the  sunshine. 

"  Oh,  surely,"  she  breathed,  "  my  Father,  if  Thou 
turnest  from  me.  Thou  canst  not  from  this  little  babe." 

At  the  usual  hour  Ora's  tea  came  up  to  her  room 
as  if  nothing  had  occurred.  The  boy  said  Miss 
Madeline  had  company  to  tea,  and  had  sent  up  hers 
to  her  room,  as  she  had  said  she  preferred  to  take 
her  meals  alone  when  strangers  were  present. 

Ora  felt  the  intended  kindness  in  tlie  message,  and 
her  heart  swelled  gratefully.    The  words  seemed  to 


112 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


convey  a  wish  that  she  should  attach  no  importance 
to  the  matter  further  than  the  words  expressed.  She 
had  asked  for  permission  to  remain  in  her  room 
except  at  such  times  as  when  the  family  were  alone, 
and  it  was  kindly,  thoughtfully  granted. 

But  another  thought  occured  to  her  after  a  little 
while.  Perhaps  Madeline  had  not  as  yet,  learned 
v/hat  had  occurred,  and  she  was  yet  to  feel  her  indig- 
nation. In  that  case,  the  hope  that  was  again  spring- 
ing up  in  her  heart,  must  die  out.  Ah !  when  will 
we  cease  to  multiply  trouble,  and  feeling  our  inno- 
cence rely  upon  a  higher  power  to  sustain  us. 

Madeline  did  not  get  an  opportunity  to  go  to  Ora 
during  the  evening.  Company  came  in  to  tea,  and 
others  arriving  after,  detained  her  till  late.  When  she 
passed  her  door  at  last,  all  was  quiet  within,  and  she 
concluded  to  wait  till  morning  before  expressing  the 
kind  course  they  had  decided  to  adopt  toward  her. 

Filled  with  this  purpose,  she  come  out  of  her  room 
early,  and  proceeded  to  that  of  the  governess.  When 
she  reached  it,  she  found  it  empty !  Ora  was  gone  ! 


CHAPTER  XL 


Six  Years  previous  to  the  commeuceinent  of  our 
Btory,  a  beautiful  little  cottage  was  reared  in  one  of 
the  loveliest  portions  of  the  Old  Dominion.  It  stood 
upon  a  little  knoll,  thickly  carpeted  with  green  grass, 
and  sloping  away  gently  to  the  edge  of  the  beautiful 
stream,  that  wound  in  and  out  among  the  lofty  hills, 
glittering  and  flashing  in  the  bright  sunshine,  like  a 
stream  of  molten  silver. 

There  was  a  rare  collection  of  shrubbery  in  the  yard 
and  garden,  and  woodbines,  eglantines  and  sweet 
honey-suckles  clambered  in  wild  luxuriance  over  the 
windows  and  portico.  Two  large  elms,  standing  at 
each  end  of  the  cottage,  reached  out  their  giant 
branches,  and  locked  themselves  in  an  almost  impen- 
etrable mass  over  the  roof;  and  the  wide-spreading 
willows  in  front  drooped  lovingly  over  it,  as  if  to 
shelter  it  from  every  rude  breath.  The  neat  little 
palings  surrounding  the  yard,  were  overshadowed  by 
a  thick  border  of  sugar-maple  and  locusts,  and,  so 
entirely  excluding  the  cottage  from  view,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  spotless  walls 
until  you  had  opened  the  little  gate  and  begun  to 
ascend  the  broad  graveled  walk. 

In  the  borders,  flowers  of  every  description  bloomed 
profusely.  Roses  of  every  kind  filled  the  air  with 
their  rich  fragrance,  and  the  beautiful  meek- eyed 
(113)  10 


/ 

114  ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


violets  peeped  shyley  out  from  some  luxuriant  mass  of 
summer  chrysantheinnins,  and  starry  pinks.  Here  a 
coral  honey-suckle  climbed  gracefully  over  the  white, 
delicate  frame-work  that  supported  it;  there  a  sweet- 
brier  shook  off  its  fragrance  on  the  balmy  breeze. 
Bright,  orange-colored  crocuses  nodded  here  and  there, 
beautifully  contrasted  with  the  dense  masses  of  mint, 
and  geraniums,  that  lifted  their  scarlet  heads  proudly, 
vieing  with  the  queen  of  flowers  in  their  stateliness. 
The  whole  presented  a  scene  too  gorgeously  beautiful 
for  description;  and  this  was  more  like  an  Eden, 
where  Edward  Piercelie  had  brought  his  child-like, 
beautiful  bride,  than  a  place  where  sorrow  might 
glide  in  with  her  stealthy  step,  and  lay  a  blighting 
hand  upon  the  happy  hearts  of  those  two  loving 
creatures. 

Edward  Piercelie  was  the  only  son  of  a  country 
clergyman,  and  the  heir  to  a  handsome -estate.  His 
father  had  taken  great  pains  with  his  education,  and 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  he  graduated  with  the  proud- 
est honor  that  heart  could  wish,  and  returned  home 
to  his  parents,  where  he  was,  as  he  had  ever  been,  the 
pet  and  idol  of  his  father's  household. 

Once,  when  Edward  returned  home  at  vacation, 
he  found  a  fair,  delicate  little  girl  an  inmate  of  his 
home. 

She  was  an  orphan,  whose  parents  had  died  direct- 
ly after  landing  in  the  States,  leaving  her  alone, 
destitute  among  strangers.  Mr.  Piercelie,  whose  heart 
ached  for  the  situation  of  the  little  stranger,  took  her 
to  his  home,  and  cared  for  her,  as  though  she  had 
been  his  own.    Thus  years  passed  away,  and  the 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


115 


delicate  child  grew  up,  under  the  tender  care  bestow- 
ed upon  her,  to  be  a  beautiful  woman. 

Edward  had,  however,  paid  very  little  attention  to 
the  little  stranger  until  his  last  vacation,  when,  struck 
with  her  wondrous  beauty,  he  suddenly  changed  his 
indifferent  manner,  and  became  as  tender  and  devoted 
as  he  had  previously  been  careless  and  cool ;  and 
when  he  at  last  departed  tor  his  last  term  in  college, 
the  gentle  girl  clung  to  him,  and  wept  as  though  her 
heart  would  break,  while  he,  scarcely  less  moved,  tried 
to  sooth  her  with  assurances  of  lasting  affection,  and 
promises  to  return  and  claim  her  as  his  bride. 

Time  passed  slowly  away,  and  summer  merged  into 
autumn,  autumn  to  winter,  and  winter  to  spring,  ere 
the  son  returned  again  to  his  father's  hearthstone  ;  and 
then  the  joy  he  felt  at  meeting  was  soon  changed  to 
Borrow,  for  his  parents  were  stricken  down  with  a 
malignant  fever,  and  died  within  three  days  of  each 
other. 

Then  the  two  orphans  stood  alone.  Neither  could 
claim  a  kindred  tie  on  earth,  and  their  desolation  and 
frightful  bereavement  but  served  to  cement  the  bonds 
of  their  plighted  affections. 

Standing  alone,  beside  the  corpse  of  their  almost 
idolized  father  and  guardian,  after  the  mother's  funeral, 
the  two  had  gazed  mournfully  upon  the  dead,  and 
then  lifted  their  eyes  to  each  other's  faces,  and  in  that 
mute  glance,  then  said,  plainly  as  words  could  have 
spoken:  ''We  are  alone,  now — all  that  is  left  of  a 
once  happy  circle!"  and  stretching  forth  their  hands 
simultaneously,  they  met  in  a  close  clasp  with  the 
bimple  utterance  of  a  name. 


116 


ORA,   THE    LOST  WIPE. 


"Nina." 
''Edward." 

And  thus  were  they  pledged ;  with  only  the  eyes  of 
God,  and  the  presence  of  the  dead  for  witnesses  to 
their  solemn  plighting. 

Two  months  afterwards,  they  were  married,  and  re- 
moved to  the  beautiful  little  cottage  before  described, 
leaving  the  parsonage  vacant,  for  the  reception  of  the 
new  minister,  who  had  been  chosen  to  fill  the  place  of 
the  dead. 

And  here,  in  this  quiet  spot,  surrounded  by  the 
rarest  beauties  fashioned  by  the  hand  of  nature,  they 
found  but  one  drawback  to  their  happiness,  and  that 
was  regret  for  those  who  had,  in  their  first  flush  of 
youthful  joy,  been  removed  from  the  path  which  they 
had  so  fondly  hoped  in  future  to  make  bright  for 
them. 

But  as  the  time  passed  away,  they  forgot,  in  a  meas- 
ure, their  loss,  in  the  joys  that  crovcded  upon  them,  and 
with  health,  beauty,  luxury  and  the  innocent  prattle  of 
the  little  one  who  came  to  gladden  their  hearts,  they 
were  as  happy  as  it  is  possible  for  creatures  of  earth 
to  be. 

But  there  are  serpents,  who  are  ever  on  the  alert  to 
enter  the  Eden  bowers,  and  beguile  the  inmates  to  sin 
and  sorrow,  and  theirs  was  not  an  exception  to  the 
baneful  influence  of  the  wily  reptile. 

One  evening,  Edward,  upon  returning  home  from 
town,  threw  into  his  wife's  lap  a  dainty  billet,  saying, 
gaily— 

There,  little  one,  is  an  agreeable  surprise  for  you." 
"  What  is  it,  Edward  !" 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


117 


"  Read  it  for  yourself,"  retorted  her  husband,  pleas- 
antly. 

Mrs.  Piercelie  opened  it,  and  with  a  smile,  ran  her 
eyes  down  the  page. 

''Why,  Edward  1"  she  said,  surprised,  ''I  never 
knew  that  you  had  a  cousin  living — I  thought  you  had 
not  a  relative  in  the  world." 

"  Faith  !  and  so  did  I,  yet  it  seems  that  I  have,  and 
a  beautiful  one,  too,  if,  as  she  asserts,  she  is  the  young 
lady  whom  I  met  at  Mrs.  Porter'^  during  my  college 
term.  But  it  puzzles  me  that  she  did  not  discover  the 
relationship  existing  between  us,  then.  However,  I 
suppose  she  has  just  found  it  out,  and  as  it  is  more 
charming  to  have  a  pleasant  trip  out  in  the  country 
just  now,  she  will  presume  upon  it  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  with  us  at  our  'delightful  country  seat.'  " 

"Why,  dear,"  exclaimed  Nina,  in  surprise,  "how 
sarcastic  you  are.  I  hope  you  are  not  displeased  with 
this  contemplated  visit?" 

"Not  displeased,  darling,"  returned  Edward,  en- 
circling his  wife's  waist  with  his  arm,  and  gently 
drawing  the  shower  of  shining  brown  curls  upon  his 
shoulder.  "  But  it  is  so  annoying  to  have  our  happy 
quiet  broken  in  upon.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  be  forever 
contented  here,  alone  with  my  two  treasures,  and  I 
fear,  when  once  disturbed,  all  will  not  seem  the  same 
as  it  did  before." 

"  Well,  Edward,  if  you  don't  want  her  to  come,  I'm 
sure  you  might  put  her  off  some  way." 

"  No,  no  !  That  will  never  do,"  he  returned,  quickly. 

"  Besides  I  cannot  think  of  keeping  my  little  bird 
caged  up  forever,  alone.    If  she  never  has  com- 


118 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


panion8  of  ner  own  age  to  warble  with  her,  I  fear  sne 
may  grow  weary  of  her  confinerneut." 

Oh,  Edward  !"  she  answered,  reproachfully,  "  how 
could  you  say  so  !  Was  I  ever  so  happy  in  my  life  as 
I  have  been  here,  with  none  but  yourself  and  our  little 
one  and  servants.  I  ask  for  nothing  upon  the  earth 
but  that  God  will  grant  us  the  peace  and  happiness 
that  has  hitherto  been  ours."  And  the  sweet,  dear 
eyes  were  raised  lovingly  and  confidingly  to  her  hus- 
band's face. 

''God  bless  you,  love,"  he  returned,  kissing  the 
white  brow.  "And  may  our  future  be  as  happy  as 
the  past  has  been.  But  Alice  Murray  must  come,  I 
suppose,"  he  added,  after  a  pause.  ''  We  cannot  put 
her  off  easily,  and  it  is  all  foolishness  in  me  about  her 
leaving  a  cloud  behind  her,  as  I  have  fancied  she 
would,  ever  since  I  read  that  letter." 

How  singular,"  said  Nina,  thoughtfully.  "  I  can- 
not see  how  she  could  in  any  way  disturb  us.  At 
least  it  would  be  but  a  ripple  upon  the  clear  surface 
of  the  stream,  that  world  leave  no  trace  when  it  should 
have  passed  away.  Who  could  possess  the  power  to 
mar  our  happiness  so  long  as  we  are  secure  of  each 
other's  love." 

"  No  one,  my  pet,"  returned  Edward,  fondly,  "  and 
we  will  dismiss  all  fears." 

''  We  !  Who  entertained  any  but  yourself,"  retorted 
his  wife,  playfully.  For  my  part,  I  think  it  will  be 
very  nice  to  have  a  beautiful,  accomplished  'city 
cousin'  visit  us  in  our  rural  cottage.  It  will  be  some- 
thing so  new  to  entertain  a  permanent  guest.  And 
then,"  she  rattled  on  joyously,  "  won't  we  have  her  so 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


119 


in  love  with  our  country  life,  that  she  will  never  want 
to  go  back  to  the  hot,  dusty  city  again  !  Of  cool, 
sweet  evenings  we  will  all  walk  out,  and  stroll  along 
the  river  banks,  or  climb  the  cliff,  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  magnificent  scenery  beyond.  We  will  also 
have  books  and  music  to  while  away  the  hours,  which 
will  be  all  too  fleeting,  so  laden  will  they  be  with 
happiness.  Then,  of  mornings,  when  I  shall  be  too 
busy  to  leave  home,  you  shall  take  her  out  riding — 
put  her  on  mj  beautiful  little  Snow-flake,  and  I  will 
stay  here  to  prepare  something  for  your  dinner.  Let 
me  see !  You  shall  have  fine  turtle  soup,  vegetables, 
roast  chicken  and  turkey,  and  nice  cakes,  strawberries 
and  cream,  such  as  she  has  never  seen  in  the  city. 
And  then,  oh  !  won't  I  make  her  stare,  with  the  fresh 
fragrant  prints  of  golden  butter,  the  nice  fresh  eggs, 
and  cold  milk,  richer  and  sweeter  than  she  has  ever 
tasted.    Oh,  Edward,  she  must  come  !" 

"  And  so  she  shall,  little  pet,"  returned  Mr.  Piercelie, 

^'  We'll  write  to  her  at  once." 
There  ! — that's  your  own  dear  self  again  ;  and  I'll 
show  you  how  happy  we  shall  all  be !" 

''And  shan't  you  feel  lonely  when  she  is  gone?" 

''No indeed, I'll  have  so  much  to  do  to  keep  things 
in  order,  and  prepare  for  the  winter.  You  know  by 
the  time  she  goes  away,  I'll  have  to  begin  packing 
away  butter,  eggs  and  pickles ;  and  there  will  be  the 
blackberries,  quinces,  grapes,  damsons,  and  peaches  to 
preserve.  I'll  have  no  time  to  feel  lonely  and  discon- 
tented. Besides,  this  fairy  cot,  where  I  have  ever 
been  so  blessed  and  happy,  can  never  be  anything  but 
pleasant  and  attractive  to  me,  come  what  may." 


120 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"Gocl  grant  it,"  was  the  fervent  response.  "Like 
tlie  enlightened  bard,  I  think  '  there's  no  place  like 
home  and  I  should  grow  inexpressibly  sad  to  see  my 
little  wife  becoming  discontented  with  it." 

''No  fear  of  that,  dear  Edward.  I  could  not  be 
happy  out  of  my  sweet  little  home-circle,  and  as  long 
as  I  possess  my  husband's  love,  I  shall  never  desire  to 
leave  it." 

The  words  were  earnest  and  simple ;  but,  in  after 
years,  Edwad  Piercelie  remembered  them,  with  agony 
and  remorse  tugging  at  his  heart-strings ;  and  he 
would  have  given  his  life,  twice  over,  had  he  possessed 
the  power  to  recall  those  years,  and  again  live  over 
that  happy  period. 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

Alice  Mueray  came  to  Rose  Cottage  in  the  first 
flush  of  June,  just  when  the  golden  harvests  were 
ripening  for  the  scythe,  and  the  scarlet  cherries  hung 
in  gorgeous  masses  from  drooping  boughs.  Professing 
to  yield  herself  up  entirely  to  the  ease  and  freedom 
of  country  life,  she  ran  hither  and  thither,  like  a  wild 
thing,  stopping  but  an  instant  in  one  place,  where, 
like  a  little  humming  bird,  she  fluttered  a  moment 
over  some  rare  plant  or  dainty  flower,  then  away 
again,  like  a  flash  of  light,  while  Nina  and  her  hus- 
band followed  laughingly. 


OEA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


121 


They  felt  more  at  ease  with  the  gay  girl,  than  they 
had  expected  to  feel;  and  the  bright,  laughing  face 
of  their  guest  and  cousin,  came,  like  a  flash  of  sun- 
light, into  the  little  cottage. 

Alice  was  tall  and  slender,  with  eyes  and  hair  as 
black  as  the  raven's  wing*  Her  head  was  small, 
finely  formed,  and  she  wore  her  hair  about  her  neck 
in  shining  coils,  which  gave  a  singular  expression  to 
her  elfish  face.  Her  cheeks  wore  the  brilliant  tint  of 
the  carnation,  and  the  small,  pearl-like  teeth  gleamed 
brightly  within  the  scarlet,  proudly  curved  lips  that 
were  perpetually  wreathed  in  a  smile,  which  was  pe- 
culiar-to  herself.  Evening  after  evening  found  them 
rambling  on  the  river  banks,  or  scaling  some  rugged 
height,  till  Nina,  at  last,  laughingly,  declared,  they 
would  either  get  drowned,  or  fall  from  some  frightful 
precipice  and  break  their  necks ;  or  meet  a  worse 
fate,  from  her  sad  inattention  to  her  house-keeping — 
starve  to  death ;  and,  assuring  them  of  her  unwilling- 
ness to  curtail  their  pleasure,  bade  them  go  without 
her. 

At  first  they  protested  strongly  against  this,  but 
Nina  gaily  resisted  their  entreaties  to  accompany 
them  every  day;  and  each  evening  saw  the  cousins 
strolling  over  the  beautiful  grounds,  or  mounted  upon 
the  spirited  horses,  of  which  Edward  was  so  justly 
proud,  flying  over  the  valleys,  more  like  Indians  than 
civilized  people. 

And  Nina,  glancing  now  and  then  from  a  door  or 
window,  as  she  glided  swiftly  about,  engaged  in 
household  ^duties,  would  smile  brightly  at  the  thought 
of  their  pleasure,  and  then  away,  witb  .^wift  and  skill- 

11 


122 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


ful  fingers,  preparing  some  dainty  luxury  to  refresh 
them  upon  their  return. 

Thus  weeks  passed  away,  and  a  cloud  began  to 
darken  the  briglitness  of  their,  hitherto,  uninterrupted 
happiness.  Nina  was  no  longer  urged  to  accompany 
them  in  their  walks  or  rides,  but  seemed  to  be  wholly 
forgotten. 

•  And  then  the  cheeks  of  the  young  wife  began  to 
pale,  and  the  head  to  droop  mournfully,  as  the  con- 
viction that  she  was  neglected  forced  itself  upon  her 
mind.  She  struggled  hard  to  repel  it,  and  to  excuse 
them  on  the  grounds  of  having  herself  urged  them 
to  go  without  her;  but  she  did  not  expect,  when 
doing  this,  that  she  was  to  be  entirely  dropped  ofi', 
and  left  alone,  day  after  day,  while  they  walked,  rode 
or  visited  some  fall,  cliff  or  ruin,  to  while  away  the 
long  summer  hours,  which  began  to  drag  heavily  with 
the  young  wife. 

Aunt  Sue,  the  old  cook,  had  observed  the  change 
in  her  young  mistress,  and  her  honest  old  heart  was 
grieved  and  indignant  at  its  cause. 

One  morning  Nina  was  giving  her  some  directions 
about  dinner,  while  busily  picking  over  some  cur- 
rants, when  she  observed,  abruptly: 

"  Miss  Nina,  Marse  Edward  an'  Miss  Murray  take 
heap  o'  rides  an'  walks  lately." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Nina,  absently ;  "  they  seem  to  be 
enjoying  themselves." 

What  for  you  neber  go  too?"  asked  Sue,  with  a 
sidelong  glance  at  her  mistress. 

Oh,  I  can't  spare  the  time  to  go  as  often  as  they 
do,  and  should  not  feel  like  going  if  I  could." 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


123 


"  Well,  Miss  Nina,"  returned  the  old  negress,  work- 
ing away  vigorously  at  her  batch  of  wheat  dough ; 
"  you  can  do  jis'  as  you  pleases,  but  if  1  was  in  your 
place,  I  should  not  'low  a  husband  of  mine  to  go  gal- 
lantin'  a  young  girl  roun',  and  never  noticin'  me  once, 
to  the  scandal  of  the  whole  country." 

JSfina's  lips  blanched. 

^'  Why,  Sue,  people  don't  talk  about  it,  do  they?" 

"'Deed  dey  does!  Didn't  I  hear  Miss  Wilson 
whisper  to  Miss  Jenkins  last  Sunday,  comin'  out  ob 
de  church,  jis'  to  look  how  dewoted  Mr.  Piercelie  was 
to  his  cousin,  while  his  poor  wife  was  at  home  pinin' 
her  life  away  wid  neglect !  I  tell  you.  Miss  Nina, 
dese  works  shouldn't  go  on  any  longer !  I'd  put  a 
stop  to  dem,  dat  I  would !"  and  she  stepped  back, 
with  a  flourish  of  indignation,  and  began  vigorously 
wiping  the  prespiration  from  her  ebony  visage. 

"  Oh !"  said  Nina,  with  lips  that  grew  whiter  and 
whiter  each  moment ;  "  this  is  too  much  !  But  are 
you  certain.  Sue,  that  you  were  not  mistaken  ?" 

Mistaken !"  indignantly  replied  Aunt  Sue ;  "  you 
tink,  mistiss,  dat  I  can't  believe  my  own  ears  ?  Min' 
dis,  I  knows  dat  people  hab  more  room  to  talk  dan 
you  eber  dreams  ob ;  my  own  eyes  seed  enough  las' 
night  to  convince  me." 

"  What  did  you  see,  Sue  ?"  asked  Nina,  trembling 
in  every  limb.    But  Sue  shook  her  head  mysterious- 

"  You's  unhappy  nuff.  Miss  Nina,  'thout  me  doin' 
more  to  make  you  feel  wuss.  Ise  fraid  Ise  done  said 
too  much  already." 

Too  much  for  you  to  be  silent  now,  and  not 


124 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


enough  to  satisfy  me.  I  must  know  what  you  saw," 
repeated  Nina,  with  a  determined  air. 

"  Well,  mistiss,"  coming  up  close  to  her,  and  rub- 
bing the  dough  off  one  hand  with  the  other,  "  las' 
night  I  went  out,  jist  after  supper,  an'  who  dus  I  see 
in  de  garden  but  Miss  Alice  an'  Marse  Edward.  De 
moon  was  shinin'  light  as  day,  and  dey  was  talkin' 
low  like,  so  I  couldn't  hear  what  dey  said,  but  I  saw 
him  put  his  arm  roun'  her,  and  kiss  her.  Now,  Miss 
Nina,  what  you  think  ob  dat  ar;  ain't  I  right  in  say* 
in'  I'd  put  a  stop  to  dese  sort  ob  work?" 

"  Susan,  never  let  me  hear  of  your  watching  your 
master  in  this  manner  again — nor  any  one.  He  may 
do  as  he  pleases,  but  you  shall  not  be  a  spy  upon  his 
actions ;  understand  this." 

"  Laws !  Missis,  I  didn't  mean  no  harm  by  it,"  cried 
Sue,  in  dismay.    "  I  jis  " 

"  No  matter,"  interrupted  Nina,  "it  was  very  wrong, 
and  you  must  never  be  guilty  of  such  an  action  again." 

With  these  words,  she  rose  and  set  her  pan  of  cur- 
rants upon  the  table,  and  left  the  kitchen.  The  par- 
lor was  deserted,  and  she  threw  herself,  with  her  face 
upon  the  pillows,  upon  the  lounge,  and  burst  into  an 
irresistible  fit  of  tears. 

"  Oh  !"  she  murmured  chokingly,  "  if  I  only  dream- 
ed that  he  had  ceased  to  love  me — that  another 
usurped  my  place  in  his  heart — it  would  kill  me," 
And  then  she  lay  a  long  time,  weeping  and  indulg- 
ing unhappy  thoughts,  shut  up  in  that  little  room, 
where,  for  years,  she  had  been  so  happy. 

Edward  and  Alice  had  gone  out  riding,  and  did 
not  return  till  late,  and  Alice  went  directly  to  hei 


ORAj   THE   LOST   WIFE.  125 

room,  to  change  her  dress  for  tea.  Nina  was  busy 
with  tea,  and  Edward,  in  an  absent,  preoccupied 
manner,  threw  himself  upon  the  sofa,  whistling  softly, 
like  one  engaged  in  deep  thought.  He  never  once 
seemed  to  notice  his  wife,  who  glided  so  silently 
about  the  snowy  tea-table,  arranging  the  rich  fruits 
and  cakes  her  hands  had  culled  and  prepared  to 
tempt  his  appetite.  And  poor  Nina  felt  this  keenly  ; 
but  she  was  a  brave,  true  woman,  and  struggled  hard 
against  the  tears  which  rose  threateningly,  as  she 
strove  to  ask  in  a  cheerful  manner : 

"Did  you  have  a  pleasant  ride,  Edward?" 

"  Very!" 

And  he  continued  whistling.  He  did  not  look  up, 
with  the  bright,  fond  smile  he  was  wont  to  bestow 
upon  her,  and  the  young  wife  felt  her  heart  swell 
almost  to  bursting,  at  the  tone  and  manner. 

"  What !  not  tired !"  cried  a  clear,  ringing  voice  in 
the  doorway,  and  Alice  glided  in,  in  her  radiant 
beauty — her  face  all  aglow  with  brilliant  smiles. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  exclaimed,  springing  up  and  leading 
her  to  a  seat.  "  Only  lazy ;  and  you,  I  see,  are  more 
bright  and  full  of  spirit  than  ever,  after  our  long 
jaunt.    By  the  way,  are  you  not  hungry  ?" 

"  A  little.  But,i-n  my  enjoyment,  I  forgot  that  we 
went  away  before  dinner." 

"  So  did  I,  till  I  caught  the  scent  of  that  delicious 
tea,  and  that  reminded  me  that  I  am  wofully  hungry. 
Nina,  is  it  ready?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  waiting  till  Alice  should  come 
down,"  replied  Nina,  gently,  and  moving  to  her  place> 
as  she  spoke ;  but  her  hand  shook  so,  as  she  handed 


126 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


the  cup,  that  she  almost  burned  Edward's  fingers, 
which  drew  from  him  an  exclamation  of  reproach : 

"  Why,  Nina,  how  awkward  you  are !  What  is  the 
matter  with  you,  to-night?" 

"  I  am  not  very  well,"  she  replied,  striving  hard  to 
keep  back  the  tears.    "  I  have  a  bad  headache." 

"  Then  why  didn'nt  you  go  to  your  room,  and  leave 
Jane  to  wait  on  us  ?  She  could  have  done  as  well." 

"  But  I  did  not  like  to  leave  her  to  do  it,  knowing 
how  you  have  always  insisted  upon  my  pouring  your 
tea." 

Mr.  Piercelie  took  no  notice  of  the  remark,  and, 
turning  to  Alice,  entered  into  an  animated  conversa- 
tion upon  the  beauties  of  the  scenes  they  had  visited 
that  day,  while  that  poor  pale-faced  woman,  with  a 
crushed  and  agonized  heart,  sat  quietly  listening,  and 
struggling  bravely  with  the  emotions  that  almost 
overwhelmed  her  in  their  fearful  strife. 

After  tea,  the  two,  still  engaged  in  lively  conversa- 
tion, took  chairs  out  upon  the  piazza,  while  Nina 
superintended  the  clearing  away  of  the  tea-things  ; 
and  then,  with  an  aching  head  and  breaking  heart, 
the  young  wife  sought  her  room,  and  threw  herself, 
without  undressing,  upon  the  bed. 

That  was  a  fearful  hour  for  Nina  Piercelie,  and  she 
shrank  from  its  torture  as  a  poor  criminal  shrinks 
from  the  blow  of  the  axe  that  is  to  put  an  end  to 
every  earthly  hope  and  aspiration.  There  were  no 
tears  now;  only  great  drops  of  prespiration  beaded 
the  white  brow,  and  rolled  slowly  off  upon  the  pillow, 
drenching  it  as  with  the  clammy  dews  of  death,  while 
every  limb  quivered,  as  if  in  the  last  agony.  She 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


127 


had  twined  her  heart  strings  about  that  one  loved 
being,  as  closely  as  the  clinging  vine  wraps  its  ten- 
drils about  the  branches  of  a  tree;  and  now  that  the 
tree  was  falling,  she  could  feel  the  silken  fibers  snap- 
ping, slowly,  one  by  one,  and  life  itself  seemed  going 
out,  in  the  awful  struggle. 

Thus  the  hours  passed  and  the  deep  hush  of  night 
was  over  the  earth.  The  silence  grew  oppressive, 
for  nothing  but  the  wild  beating  of  her  own  heart, 
and  the  gentle,  regular  respiration  of  her  child,  broke 
the  profound  stillness.  Every  vein  seemed  swollen 
with  a  tide  of  molten  lead,  and  her  temples  throbbed, 
to  bursting,  with  a  burning  pain.  It  was  more  than 
she  could  bear,  and,  with  a  stifled  scream  of  agony, 
Mrs.  Piercelie  sprang  from  her  couch,  and  hastened 
down  stairs. 

Her  design  was  to  procure  something  with  which 
to  bathe  her  throbbing  temples,  and  she  hurried  on, 
forgetful  and  heedless  alike  of  everything  except  the 
fearful  pain  that  was  maddening  her. 

Scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  she  opened  the 
front  door,  and  passed,  out  noiselessly,  taking  her  way 
through  a  side-gate,  down  to  the  little  meadow,  where 
a  cool  spring  bubbled  up  amid  the  violets.  She  did 
not  heed  the  heavy  dew  in  the  long  grass,  that 
drenched  her  garments  almost  to  her  waist,  but 
almost  flew  over  the  intervening  space,  and  knelt 
beside  the  little  spring,  dashing  the  cool,  bright  wa- 
ters over  her  fevered  brow.  It  stilled  the  wild  throb- 
bing, and  the  low,  unceasing  bubbling  and  murmur 
of  the  waters  soothed  her  disordered  nerves,  more 
than  aught  else  could  have  done,  and,  grateful  for 


128 


ORA^   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


the  relief  she  had  found,  she  laid  her  cheek  down 
upon  the  wet  grass,  and  wept — wept  such  tears  as 
give  relief  to  an  overburdened  heart;  while  the  stars 
looked  calmly  down  upon  her,  and  the  moon  sailed 
on  as  brightly  through  her  azure  course,  as  though 
no  cloud  had  ever  darkened  its  lustre. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  little  clock  upon  the  mantel  chimed  the  Jiour 
of  twelve,  as  Nina  glided  again  into  the  cottage,  and 
she  was  about  to  ascend  to  her  room,  when  the  low 
hum  of  voices  fell  upon  her  ear.  The  parlor  door 
stood  open,  and  a  single  stream  of  moonlight  fell 
directly  upon  the  sofa,  where  sat  Edw^ard  and  Alice. 
Nina  shook  violently",  but  a  spell  riveted  her  to  the 
spot,  and,  in  the  deep  stillness,  every  w^ord  that  was 
uttered  she  heard  as  distinctly  as  though  it  had  been 
spoken  in  her  very  ear. 

There  v/ere  low  words  of  tenderness,  and  vows  of 
eternal  affection  interchanged,  and  the  young  wife 
seemed  congealing  into  stone,  as  she  heard  one,  who 
had  solemnly  promised,  before  God's  altar,  to  love, 
cherish  and  protect  her  through  life,  breathing  in 
another's  ear  more  passionate  words  of  love  than  she 
— his  wife — had  ever  heard  him  utter.  Then,  to  some 
of  his  fond  assurances,  the  low  voice  of  the  syren  camo 
in  reply : 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


129 


"  And  Nina,  your  wife,  what  is  to  become  of  her  ?" 

"Nina!  Oh,  Alice,  do  not  speak  to  me  of  her 
now !"  was  the  quick  reply.  "  I  am  sorry  for  her, 
poor  child,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  She  is  not  capable 
of  bestowing  upon  me  the  great  love  with  which 
you  can  enrich  my  life.  She  is  only  a  simple,  silly 
child,  and  you  are  a  grand,  beautiful  woman.  I 
never  loved  her — I  knew  not  the  true  meaning  of  the 
word  love  till  I  beheld  you,  Alice,  my  own !  my 
beautiful!" 

Oh,  God!  this,  then,  was  the  reward  for  years  of 
devotion  and  almost  blind  idolatry !  She  had  poured 
out  her  wealth  of  treasure  at  his  feet,  and  he  trampled 
upon  it  as  nought  but  dust.  Her  brain  reeled,  and 
she  was  unable  to  move  from  the  spot ;  but  she  did 
not  faint  or  utter  tlie  least  cry.  Agony  and  despair 
gave  her  strength,  and  she  battled  bravely  with  her 
weakness. 

She  had  heaf d  enough !  Her  husband  no  longer 
loved  her — had  never  loved  her,  according  to  his  own 
words — and  the  poor,  broken-hearted  wife  looked 
forth  into  the  future,  as  the  weary  traveler  gazes  far 
out  upon  a  barren  waste  where  he  is  compelled  to  go, 
but  which  will  afford  neither  food  nor  drink  to  appease 
his  gnawing  hunger,  or  quench  the  raging  thirst  that 
consumes  him. 

With  a  violent  effort,  Nina  shook  off  the  awful 
lethargy  that  was  beginning  to  steal  over  her,  and 
darted  quickly  up  the  stairs.  In  a  moment's  time  she 
had  decided  upon  her  course;  and  now,  action  alone 
remained  for  her.  She  did  not  pause  or  falter  now. 
Strong  in  the  intensity  of  her  despair,  she  heeded 


130 


ORA^    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


nothing  but  what  she  had  to  do.  She  lighted  a  lamp 
and  going  to  the  wardrobe,  took  down  a  black  dress, 
which  she  hastily  donned,  and  then,  collecting  a  few 
of  her  most  valuable  articles,  and  packing  a  change 
of  apparel  for  herself  and  child,  in  a  small  satchel, 
she  threw  on  her  cloak  and  advanced  to  the  little 
crib,  where  the  child  was  so  sweetly  sleeping. 

She  bent  over  her  a  moment,  as  if  engaged  in 
prayer,  and  the  bright  tears  fell  fast  upon  the  little 
one's  shining  curls ;  but  the  babe  slept  on  unconscious 
of  sorrow  and  suffering. 

At  last  the  mother  rose  and  lifted  the  little  one 
gently  from  the  crib,  and  folded  a  warm  cloak  about 
the  tiny  form;  then  putting  on  her  own  hood,  and 
taking  the  sachel  in  one  hand,  she  made  her  way 
noiselessly  down  the  front  stairway,  and  cautiously 
opening  the  door,  passed  out  of  the  cottage.  She 
heard  the  low  murmur  of  voices  still  in  the  parlor,  as 
she  passed  under  the  window,  and  her  heart  almost 
stilled  as  the  sound  of  that  loved  one  fell,  perhaps 
for  the  last  time,  upon  her  ear ;  but  she  glided  swiftly 
on,  and  passed  out  of  the  little  gate  into  the  open 
highway. 

One  moment  she  paused  upon  a  little  knoll,  and 
gazed  wistfully  upon  the  cottage,  where  she  had 
known  so  much  happiness,  and  the  tears  rained  over 
her  cheeks,  she  murmured  a  farewell  to  the  scenes 
she  had  so  much  loved,  and  the  sobs  came  thick  and 
fast,  when  she  turned  away,  murmuring — 

Oh,  Edward !  Alice !  God  pity  and  forgive  you." 

The  following  morning,  when,  surprised  at  his  wife's 
non-appearance,  Edward  Piercelie  sought  her  room, 


OKA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


131 


he  found  that  mother  and  child  had  both  gone,  no 
one  knew  whither. 

From  that  hour,  Edward  Piercelie  was  a  wretclied, 
remorse-stricken  man.  Then  the  scales  fell  from  his 
eyes,  and  the  syren's  chains  no  longer  enfettered  him, 
and  he  saw  how  cruelly  unjust  he  had  been  to  one, 
who,  though  scorned  and  wronged,  was  yet  too  pure 
and  noble  minded  to  reproach  him  for  his  baseness. 

Poor  old  Sue  lamented,  loudly,  her  mistress'  loss, 
and  openly,  and  with  the  warmest  indignation,  charged 
her  master  and  Alice  Murray  with  breaking  her  heart, 
and  driving  her  forth  from  home,  alone  to  wander 
among  strangers — perhaps  to  die  of  want — a  charge 
which  one  received  with  humility — the  other,  with 
rage. 

"  Will  you  sit  here,  and  thus  permit  your  own  ser- 
vant to  abuse  us,  Edward  ?"  she  asked  passionately, 
as  Sue's  indignant  accusations  poured  forth  in  a  tor- 
rent. 

He  did  not  reply,  and  Alice  rose  to  her  feet,  tremb- 
ling in  every  limb. 

"  Leave  the  room,"  she  commanded,  angrily.  "  How 
dare  you  utter  such  words  as  you  have  done,  to  my 
face!" 

"  Because  dey's  de  truf,  an' ye  can't  deny  it.  You's 
not  only  broke  my  poor,  dear  Missis'  heart,  but  you's 
made  yourselves  de  by-words  of  de  whole  country." 

"  It  is  false !"  cried  Alice,  passionately.  A  false- 
hood of  your  own  coinage?  No  one  would  dare  to 
utter  a  word  against  my  fair  fame,  because  I  accom- 
panied my  cousin  in  his  rides." 

"  Maybe  dey  wouldn't,  if  you'd  a  had  dat  cousin's 


132 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


wife  along  wid  you,  or  even  a  gone  only  'casionally ; 
but  ye  went  ebry  day,  from  mornin'  till  night,  an'  she 
sat  here  alone,  or  worked  her  finger  nails  off  for  you, 
blisterin'  her  sweet  face  an'  hands  by  de  fire,  to  make 
yoti  a  nice  cake  or  pie,  while  you  was  disgracin'  her 
and  yerselves,  an'  breakin'  her  heart." 

Great  God !  Edward,  will  you  permit  that  creature 
to  go  on  thus  ?"  and  Alice's  face  was  white  as  a  sheet, 
with  passion. 

"  We  deserve  it,"  he  said,  humbly.  "  How  can  we 
deny  her  accusations,  when  we  know  and  feel  their 
justness?  Oh,  Alice,  how  blind  we  have  been !  But 
I  can  see  it  all  now !  Oh,  Nina,  Nina,  my  poor  in- 
jured wife  !"  He  sank  back  upon  the  sofa,  and  the 
proud  girl  stamped  her  foot  impatiently  upon  the  ^ 
floor. 

"  Leave  the  room,  I  say !"  and  she  hurled  a  book  at 
her,  with  such  force  that,  in  dodging  it,  it  missed  Sue's 
head,  and  shivered  a  large  mirror,  near  which  she 
stood,  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Seeing  the  old  negress 
still  disposed  to  disobey  her,  she  seized  a  chair,  and 
would  have  hurled  that,  also,  but  Sue,  seeing  the 
danger,  and  really  terrified  at  the  fiendish  expression 
of  her  face,  hastily  left  the  room,  muttering  bitter 
anathemas  against  them  both. 

"  Neber  mine,"  she  said,  closing  the  door  behind 
her.  "  Ye'll  repent  this,  sometime,  and,  when  ye'r 
on  yer  dyin'  bed,  hated  and  despised  by  everybody, 
yeUl  be  sorry  for  the  misery  ye've  made  for  one  whose 
greatest  fault  was  to  heap  kindness  on  you,  when  she 
ought  to  kicked  ye,  like  a  dog,  from  her  door,"  and 
Sue  was  gone. 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


133 


Alice  turned  to  Edward  Piercelie. 

"  This  weakness  surprises  me,  Edward.  Have  you 
gone  mai,  that  you  can  hear  yourself  and  me  insulted, 
in  this  manner,  and  not  use  your  authority  to  prevent 
and  punish  such  insolence  ?  If  that  negro  belonged 
to  me,  I  would  whip  her  within  an  inch  of  her  life  for 
this." 

"  I  will  not !"  said  Edward,  rising  and  pacing  the 
floor.  "  She  is  the  only  one  who  cared  for,  while  we 
blindly  wronged  and  neglected  her.  Oh,  AJice,  you 
ask  me  if  I  have  gone  mad,  and  I  would  give  worlds 
if  I  could  only  answer  'yes,'  and  feel  that  all  this 
injury,  inflicted  upon  that  pure,  angelic  girl,  was  but 
a  freak  of  madness,  on  my  part,  and  not  blind,  delib- 
^     erate  cruelty!" 

"Poor  weak  fool!"  sneered  Alice,  whose  anger 
deprived  her  of  her  prudence,  "How  long  is  it 
since  you  confessed  to  me  that  you  had  never 
loved  the  woman  whom  you  foolishly  made  your 
wife?" 

All  the  fire  and  resentment  of  Mr.  Piercelie's  nature 
was  roused  at  her  tone  and  sneer,  and  a  fierce  quarrel 
ensued,  and,  on  the  same  day,  Alice  Murray,  dis- 
graced, and  smarting  under  the  disappointment  and 
overthrow  of  all  the  schemes  she  had  built  up,  left 
Rose  Cottage  to  return  to  Richmond.  Then,  without 
delay,  Edward  Piercelie  departed  in  search- of  his 
lost  wife. 

But  this  was  no  easy  matter,  for  he  had  no  clue  to 
the  direction  she  had  taken,  and  she  had  left  no  word 
or  line  by  which  he  might  be  guided.  He  made  in- 
quiries in  every  direction,  but  no  one  had  seen  such  a 


134 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


person  as  he  described,  and  weeks  and  months  passed 
away  in  fruitless  wandering. 

Old  Sue  was  disconsolate,  and  declared  she  knew 
her  poor  Missis  had  drowned  herself  in  the  river;  and 
as  the  time  passed  on,  without  any  more  success  than 
had  attended  him  through  his  fruitless  inquiries, 
Edward  began  to  fear  that  her  surmises  were  true, 
and  Nina  had  indeed  put  an  end  to  a  miserable  ex- 
istence. 

Then  the  little  cottage  was  deserted,  and  Edward 
Piercelie  became  a  wanderer.  But  how  different  from 
the  gentle  being,  whom  his  inconstancy  had  driven 
from  him.  Both  had  gone  forth,  it  is  true,  with  sorrow 
and  agony  at  their  hearts ;  but  one  bore  a  conscious- 
ness of  having  done  her  duty,  so  far  as  possible,  as  a 
true  wife,  while  the  other  was  stung  with  remorse 
and  shame,  for  his  cruelty  and  injustice. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Out  once  more,  alone  and  friendless,  in  the  unchari- 
table world.  But  again  with  shame  and  indignation 
in  her  heart,  and  a  fire  in  her  brain  that  robbed  her  of 
reason.  She  had  taken  up  her  child  at  midnight,  and 
stolen  forth  into  the  street,  intent  alone  upon  one 
thought — escape.  She  wanted  to  flee  from  Harry's 
love,  from  Madeline's  hate,  from  Dr.  CUfton's  anger. 
Too  much  had  been  crowded  upon  the  poor  woman  in 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


135 


her  physical  weakness.  A  fit  of  mental  alierration 
was  the  result,  in  which  she  went  out  from  amongst 
her  friends,  and  took  her  lonely  way  toward  a  distant 
part  of  the  city. 

On  and  on,  she  w^andered,  scarcely  feeling  the 
weight  of  the  little  form  which  at  another  time,  she 
could  not  have  carried. 

At  last  she  come  to  the  Battery,  and  there  sinking 
in  a  friendly  shadow,  bowed  her  head  over  the  child, 
who  at  length  had  closed  her  eyes  with  weariness  after 
a  season  of  quiet  wonder  at  the  strange  proceedings  of 
the  mother. 

What  passed  through  her  mind  during  the  remain- 
ing hours  of  night,  was  the  wild  thought  of  a  maniac, 
and  bears  no  record.  She  must  have  slept,  at  length. 
When  the  day  dawned,  restored  to  consciousness,  she 
gazed  around  her  in  blank  dismay,  striving  vainly  to 
account  for  her  presence  in  such  a  place. 

The  hum  of  life  was  rising  deeper  and  deeper 
abroad.  Wheels  -rattled  over  the  stones,  and  horses 
feet  pattering  before  them,  chimed  in  harshly  with  the 
rough  jar.  There  were  sounds  of  footsteps  upon  the 
pavements,  and  every  where,  indications  of  re-awak- 
ened life. 

Weak,  trembling,  perplexed,  Ora  rose  and  walked 
away  with  her  now  almost  insupportable  burden. 
This  could  not  last  long.  A  temporary  place  of  rest 
must  be  found,  where  she  could  reflect  what  was  to  be 
done. 

She  was  not  long  in  finding  a  second  class  boarding 
house,  where  she  resolved  for  the  present  to  seek  shel- 
ter.   She  reflected  that  here  she  would  be  more  secure 


136 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


from  observation  and  curiosity  than  amongst  a  higher 
class  of  people,  and  though  her  thoughts  turned  in 
disgust  from  its  coarse  appointments  and  associations, 
she  felt  that  she  must  sooner  or  later  accustom  herself 
to  adapt  herself  to  circumstances.  Misfortune  was 
pursuing  her  relentlessly.  To  what  might  it  not 
drive  her  in  the  end? 

She  rapped  at  the  door,  which  was  opened,  and  a 
shabby  girl  showed  her  into  what  she  termed  a  parlor, 
but  which  was  in  reality,  a  most  miserable  excuse  for 
a  common  sitting  and  dining  roojn  combined.  She 
stated  her  business  briefly. 

The  landlady  was  a  widow;  a  little,  sharp,  parch- 
ment'Visaged  woman,  with  small,  glittering  black 
eyes,  and  a  cunning,  disagreeable  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, that  Ora  did  not  like;  but  she  reflected  that 
she  knew  nothing  of  the  woman,  and  she  might  be 
much  better  in  heart  than  her  face'  indicated ;  and,  at 
most,  if  it  should  prove  otherwise,  she  would  only 
remain  a  day  or  two,  perhaps,  and,  if  she  should 
display  an  inclination  to  annoy  her,  she  could  easily 
seek  other  quarters. 

"I  s'pose,"  said  the  woman,  eyeing  her  keenly,  as 
she  took  a  seat  and  lifted  Ada  to  her  lap,  "that  you 
can  pay  your  board  in  advance?  It  takes  money  to 
buy  food,  and  !  can't  supply  my  boarders  with  neces- 
sary articles,  unless  they  give  me  the  means  before- 
hand to  do  it." 

I  will  pay  you  now  for  one  day  and  night.  After 
that  I  may  go  away.  But  if  I  remain  longer,  I  will 
pay  you  punctually  every  morning." 

"Well,  you  can  do  as  you  like,  but  if  you're  in 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


137 


search  of  work,  I'll  warrant  you  don't  get  a  place  inside 
of  a  week,  and  you'd  just  as  well  pay  me  for  a  week 
in  advance,  and  have  the  trouble  off  your  hands,  at 
once.    What  are  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  shall  probably  get  a  situation  as 
governess,  somewhere." 

The  woman  shook  her  head  positively. 

"  Can't  do  it.  People  don't  get  governesses  for  their 
children  now-a-days.  Just  as  quick  as  they're  out  of 
the  cradle  they  sends  them  whoppin'  off  to  boardin' 
school,  and  keeps  them  there  till  they're  fifteen  or  six- 
teen, and  then  they  brings  them  out  and  marry's  them 
right  off.    No  use  for  governesses,  you  see." 

Ora  smiled,  in  spite  of  herself,  at  this,  and  replied, 
with  an  effort  to  be  grave : 

"  I  presume  governesses  are  not  wholly  excluded. 
At  least  I  have  just  left  a  place  where  I  held  such  an 
office." 

"  What  made  you  leave  ?   Was  it  a  nice  place  ?" 

"  Very  nice,"  said  Ora,  replying  to  the  last  question, 
and  taking  no  notice  of  the  first. 

"  They  gave  you  good  wages,  I  reckon?"  glancing 
at  her  neat  black  silk,  and  the  child's  tastefully  em- 
broidered frock. 

"Very  good,"  returned  Ora,  quietly. 

"  Many  children?" 

''Three." 

''  How  long  had  you  been  there  ?" 
"  Three  months." 
The  children  had  got  through,  I  s'pose,  with  their 
studies  ?"  . 
"  No." 

12 


138  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  Then,  what  made  you  leave  such  a  nice  place  ?  I 
reckon,  though,  you  had  some  ditiiculty  with  them." 

"  No.  Circumstances,  which  could  not  interest  you, 
caused  me  to  leave,"  answered  Mrs.  Meredith,  wearied 
with  the  woman's  inquisitiveness,  and  fearing  for  the 
length  of  the  interview. 

"  But  I  am  worn  and  tired,  and  would  be  glad  to  go 
to  my  room,  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  show  me  to 
it,"  she  continued,  rising. 

Oh,  sit  down.  I'll  have  to  have  one  fixed  up  a 
little  for  you  first,  and  you  can  just  lay  your  little  girl 
on  the  lounge  there,  while  I  have  something  brought 
in  for  you  to  eat." 

Mrs.  Meredith  sank  back,  wearily,  and  the  woman 
left  the  room.  She  felt  that  she  had  not  chosen  the 
best  of  boarding-houses,  as  she  glanced  around  the 
little  apartment,  filled  with  greasy,  shabby  furniture. 
She  shuddered,  as  she  laid  Ada's  little  head  upon  the 
soiled  pillow  of  the  lounge ;  but  her  arms  ached  with 
her  weight,  and  through  trouble  and  exhaustion,  she 
felt  as  though  she  would  faint. 

In  a  short  time  the  woman  returned  with  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  a  dry,  hard  looking  piece  of  brown  bread. 
Ora  turned  from  it  in  disgust. 

You'd  better  drink  it,"  urged  the  woman.  ''There's 
nothing  half  so  strengthening  as  a  good  cup  of  tea.  It 
refreshes  one  amazingly.    Drink  it,  do." 

''  No,  thank  you,  I  cannot,"  replied  Ora,  "  I  only 
need  rest  to  refresh  me.  If  you  can  have  a  nice  piece 
of  toast  and  a  cup  of  strong  tea  for  me  by  dinner  time, 
I  think  I  may  feel  more  like  eating." 

"  Well,  just  as  you  like,"  returned  her  hostess,  in  a 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


139 


tone  that  savored  of  displeasure.  But  I  thought  you 
might  feel  faint,  and  a  good  cup  of  tea  would  do  you 
good." 

"  I'm  sure  I  thank  you  kindly,  for  your  thoughtful 
attention,  and  am  sorry  for  the  trouble  you  have  had 
to  get  it,  since  I  have  no  appetite  for  it." 

Mrs.  Meredith's  manner  was  so  gentle,  while  utter- 
ing these  words,  and  her  face  shone  so  full  of  touching 
sadness,  that  the  woman  forgot  her  displeasure  at  once, 
in  contemplating  the  beautiful  but  sorrow-stricken 
woman  before  her. 

Her  next  words,  however,  proved  that  her  inquisitive 
propensities  predominated  over  her  sympathies. 

''You've  been  married,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Ora,  with  a  slight  start. 

"How  long?" 
Six  years." 

'"Six  years  !"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  you  must  have 
been  almost  a  baby  six  years  ago,  from  your  looks 
now !" 

"I  was  fifteen,"  said  Ora,  with  a  faint  smile  at  the 
woman's  astonishment. 

"Fifteen!  Well,  that's  a  heap  too  young  to  marry. 
You  ought  to  have  stayed  at  home  with  your  mother  a 
while  longer,  and  then  there'd  been  plenty  time  to  see 
trouble." 

"Alas!"  replied  the  lady  sadly,  "I  had  neither 
father  nor  mother.    I  was  an  orphan." 

"  How  long  have  thej  been  dead?" 

"I  was  but  ten  when  they  died." 

"Poor  thing  !"  with  a  touch  of  pity.  "  An  orphan 
at  ten,  and  a  widow  at  twenty-one!    Well,  well. 


140  ORAj    THE   LOST  WIFE. 

Trouble  comes  to  all  of  us.  I  lost  my  poor,  dear  hus- 
band, Mr.  Ichabod  Jenkins,  this  ten  years  ago,  and 
I've  had  to  scuffle  mighty  hard  to  git  along,  but  some 
way  I  always  done  it.  I  aint  like  some  people,  who 
set  down  and  cry,  with  their  hands  lyin'  idle  in  their 
laps,  when  trouble  comes.  I  know  I  loved  my  paor 
old  man  jist  as  well  as  any  woman  ever  could ;  but 
when  God  saw  fit  to  take  him  from  me,  1  said  '  God's 
will  be  done,'  for,  surely,  if  He  deprives  me  of  one. 
He  will,  in  His  mercy,  send  another  to  comfort  me ; 
and  so  I've  managed  to  git  along  this  far,  and  am 
waiting  patiently  for  the  protector.  I  feel  He  will  not 
fail  to  send  one  to  me." 

''Now,"  she  continued,  settling  herself  comfortably 
in  her  arm  chair,  and  taking  up  a  blue  stocking,  whose 
color  could  scarcely  be  discerned  for  dust  and  grease, 
"  If  I  was  to  marry  a  hundred  times,  I'd  never  git  sich 
another  man  as  Mr.  Jenkins  was,  'cept  by  the  rarest 
chance.  While  he  lived,  I  always  had  some  one  to 
work  for  me,  and  keep  me  in  plenty  ;  while,  at  the 
same  time,  I  always  had  my  own  way  about  every- 
thing. I've  always  thought  a  woman  knowed  better 
how  to  manage  things  than  men.  They  git  along  so 
much  nicer  with  everything.  Men  are  such  great 
gawky,  awkward  things,  generally,  they  do  nothing 
but  blotch  and  blunder  if  it  wasn't  for  the  women. 
I've  told  my  poor,  dear  Jenkins  many  and  many's 
the  time,  that  he  would  starve  to  death  if  it  wasn't  for 
me,  to  tell  and  direct  him  about  everything,  and  he 
was  smart  and  sensible  enough  to  see  the  truth  of  it." 

Ora  saw  that  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  disposed  to  be  com- 
municative, but  it  was  more  agreeable  than  being 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


141 


questioned,  aud  she  suffered  her  to  go  on  without 
interruption.  Sitting  with  her  face  to  the  window, 
where  she  could  look  out  upon  the  street,  and  watch 
the  throng  as  it  surged  on,  she  almost  forgot  her,  in- 
deed ;  and  it  was  only  the  incessant  hum  of  her  voice 
ehat  kept  her  cognizant  of  her  presence. 

"But  you  know,"  resumed  Mrs.  Jenkins,  "  that it's 
a  hard  thing  to  lose  a  good,  kind  husband  ;  and  more 
especially  when  he's  descended  from  one  of  the  first 
families  in  the  old  country.  Yes,  Jenkins  was  one  of 
the  proudest  names  that  graced  the  annals  of  the 
whole  united  continent.  No  man  could  boast  of  a 
prouder,  than  my  poor  lost  Ichabod." 

"He  was  borned  and  raised  on  the  land  of  a  real 
lord — Lord  Wentworth,  of  England — and  was  raised 
in  the  first  style.  When  he  was  only  fourteen,  he 
served  as  a  sort  of  valet  to  young  master  Wentworth, 
and  after  he  had  grown  up  to  be  a  man,  became  head 
valet — that  was  after  his  old  master  died,  and  master 
Fredric  fell  heir  to  the  estate — and  I'm  sure.  Lord 
Fredric  thought  the  world  and  all  of  him. 

But  some  people  say  somebody  they  call  Fortune, 
'  is  a  fickle  jade,'  and  I  s'pose  it's  so,  for  my  poor,  dear 
Ichabod  didn't  keep  his  place  long  after  his  old  mastei 
died.  Lord  Fredric  Wentworth  came  home  one  morn  • 
ing,  after  a  night  spent  in  carousal,  and  found  his 
handsomest  diamond  ring  was  missing ;  and  some- 
way it  happened  that  the  worst  suspicions  fell  on  my 
poor  husband,  and  he  was  searched,  and  not  having 
the  stolen  ring  about  him,  they  had  his  trunk  searched, 
and  there  it  was,  sure  enough,  where  somebody  had 
put  it,  no  doubt,  to  get  my  husband  locked  up  in  jail, 


142  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 

through  motives  of  revenge.  At  any  rate,  I  always 
thought  so,  and  I  had  the  best  of  reasons  :  for  a  young 
man  I  knew,  one  of  the  lower  servants,  had  had  a 
grudge  against  him  ever  since  he  married  me,  which 
was  just  about  two  weeks  before  Lord  Wentworth  died. 

"He  had  begged  me  to  have  him  again  and  again, 
on  his  very  knees,  but  I  always  wouldn't.  I  had  done 
surrendered  all  the  great  wealth  of  my  spotless  affec- 
tions to  my  Ichabod,  and  there  wasn't  no  room  in  my 
heart  for  even  the  shadow  of  another's  image. 

"  So,  as  I  said,  I  always  thought  he  put  that  ring 
there,  just  through  pure  revenge,  and  he  might  a 
thought  if  he  could  once  get  Ichabod  out  of  the  way, 
he'd  maybe  get  a  chance  to  carry  me  off  by  main  force. 
However,  be  that  as  it  may,  my  poor  husband  was 
sent  off  to  prison,  and  I  thought  I  should  go  crazy 
when  they  took  him  from  me.  Oh,  that  was  a  sad, 
sad  time,  but '  the  darkest  hour  come  jist  before  day,' 
you  know,  and  one  morning  who  should-come  into  my 
room,  jist  as  it  was  beginning  to  get  light,  but  Ichabod 
himself,  creeping  on  tiptoe  and  looking  skeered  half  to 
death. 

"  'Betty,'  said  he,  in  a  quick  whisper — 
'  What  do  you  want,  Ichobod?'  says  I. 
'  Git  up  and  dress,'  says  he.    '  I  am  going  away, 
and  want  you  to  go  with  me.' 

'-^  '  Why,  where  are  you  going!'  says  I,  in  surprise. 

'To  America,'  says  he. 
" '  To  America,'  says  I.    '  What !  away  across  the 
ocean  V 

"  '  Yes,'  says  he.  '  Make  haste,  or  we'll  be  too  late 
for  the  ship  that's  going  out.' 


OEA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


143 


"  '  But,  Ichabod,  I  don't  want  to  go,'  says  I.  '  What 
are  you  going  there  for  V 

" '  Listen,  Betty,'  says  he,  bending  down  close  to  my 
ear,  '  I've  jist  escaped  from  jail,  and  I  won't  be  put 
back  there  again  for  stealing  a  thing  I  never  saw ;  and 
I'm  going  to  leave  these  cursed  wretches,  and  go  where 
gentlemen  are  treated  like  gentlemen.  Now,  Betty, 
you  know  how  I've  always  loved  you  better  than  any- 
body in  the  world,  and  if  you  have  the  least  bit  of  love 
for  me  you'll  be  quiet,  and  git  up  at  once  and  go  along 
with  me.' 

"  I  could'nt  stand  it  when  he  talked  so  affectionate 
to  me,  and  I  got  right  up,  without  another  word,  and 
gathered  up  my  things  and  followed  him  to  the  ship, 
where  we  took  passage  for  America,  and  we  came 
right  here,  where  we  lived  ever  since,  till,  poor,  dear 
Ichabod  died,  and  left  me  a  poor  lone  widow,  without 
anybody  in  the  wide  world  to  do  anything  for  me,  since 
he's  gone." 

Here  Mrs.  Jenkins  covered  her  eyes  with  her  blue 
checked  apron,  and  gave  way  to  an  imaginary  fit  of 
tears,  inly  wondering,  all  the  while,  that  her  guest 
should  seem  so  little  impressed  with  her  pathetic  story, 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Madeline,  my  daughter,  what  is  the  matter?" 
Lina  sat  with  pale  featm^es  and  compressed  lips 
behind  the  coffee  urn  as  her  father  entered  with  the 
greeting  above  recorded.    She  answered  in  simple 
and  quiet  sorrow : 

Mrs.  Meredith  is  gone,  papa." 

Gone !  Mrs.  Meredith  gone !"  he  repeated.  "  Why, 
where  to — -when  ?" 

"Last  night  she  must  have  left  the  house,  but 
where  to,  God  and  herself  alone  know.  Oh,  papa,  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  grieved  I  am.  I  had  so  much 
faith  in  her.  I  trusted  her,  and  loved  her  in  spite  of 
everything,  but  this  last  act  has  completed  her  over- 
dirow.  If  she  was  innocent,  and  knew  it,  why  did 
she  leave  us  ?  Ah  !  I  cannot  express  the  pain  I  feel  at 
this  step.  Yet  it  has  saved  me  the  trouble  of  turning 
her  away." 

"Gone,  and  without  a  word  of  explanation  or  self 
defence.  Poor,  misguided  woman  !  What  is  to  be- 
come of  her?  Lina,  she  must  have  been  out  of  money, 
very  nearly.  I  have  not  paid  her  for  the  last  month 
as  yet,  and  with  all  her  little  needs,  she  could  not  have 
had  much  left.  Did  she  not  send  to  you  for  any  at 
any  time  since  this  affair?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  have  not  seen  or  spoken  to  her  since 
the  occurrence  of  yesterday.  I  intended  to  liave  gone 
(144) 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


145 


to  her  last  night,  I  pitied  her  so  much,  but  it  was  lato 
when  I  was  left  at  liberty,  and  then  I  supposed  she 
had  retired, as  every  thing  was  still  in  her  room." 

Well,  well !"  the  Dr.  sighed  heavily.  '^It  is  a 
sad  aflair  all  the  way  through,  and  I  cant  just  see  my 
way  clearly  how  to  act.  Yet  her  last  step  removes 
the  necessity  of  investigating  the  matter  in  her  behalf. 
The  best  we  can  do,  is  to  leave  the  whole  thing  to  die 
awa}^,  and  say  no  more  abofit  it." 

Poor  Lina  was  willing  enough  to  drop  it,  for  it  w^as 
a  subject  fraught  with  such  pain,  she  shrank  instinc- 
tively from  openly  canvassing  it. 

A  new  thought,  however,  seemed  to  strike  her  as 
she  sat  thoughtfully  waiting  the  entrance  of  the  other 
members  of  the  family.  She  lifted  to  her  father,  a 
pair  of  eyes  in  which  fear  shone  deeply. 

"  Papa,  what  if  she  should  destroy  herself."  He  too 
looked  disturbed,  but  in  a  moment  he  replied  reassur- 
ingly:  I  do  not  think  we  need  fear  so  bad  an  end  as 
this.  If  she  could  do  such  a  thing,  I  am  much  mis- 
taken in  her  character — in  all  respects !"  he  added 
emphatically. 

Yet,  remember  how  sensitive  she  is,  and  the  fact 
that  she  took  nothing  but  her  child  with  her,  and  the 
clothes  they  wore.  We  cannot  tell  how  the  thought  of 
disgrace  amongst  us  who  have  treated  her  so  well, 
would  work  upon  her  feelings.  Oh,  I  fear  I  shall 
never  rest  again  until  I  know  where  she  is,  and  what 
she  is  doing,  if  indeed  alive.  Papr.,  in  pity  for  her, 
poor,  forlorn,  and  as  you  say,  misguided  w^on^ab — in- 
stitute a  search.    It  will  relieve  my  suspense." 

He  promised  to  do  so,  and  on  the  entrance  of  the 
13 


146 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


little  girls,  shortly  followed  by  Harry,  they  all  sat 
down  to  breakfast. 

The  young  man  looked  haggard  and  worn  as  if  he 
•had  not  slept.  Madeline's  gaze  rested  on  his  face 
anxiously,  but  to  her  kind  inquiries,  he  replied  shortly 
that  he  was  "  well  enough,"  and  dispatched  his  break- 
fast silently. 

When  he  rose  from  the  table,  Madeline  followed 
him  into  the  hall. 

"  Brother,  Mrs.  Meredith  went  away  last  night." 

He  was  just  in  the  act  of  taking  his  hat  from  the 
rack  when  her  words  fell  upon  his  ears,  and  he  wheeled 
upon  her  almost  fiercely. 

"  What !  gone !  You  are  mad  !  How  could  she 
leave  the  house  without  anybody  knowing  it  ?" 

''Brother!" 

The  sister's  grieved,  astonished  tone  recalled  him  to 
himself  a  little. 

"Sister,  pardon  me.  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  un- 
kindly, but  I  believe  that  woman  has  completely  upset 
us  all !  In  the  name  of  all  that  is  good,  whi/  did  she 
leave  us  in  this  manner  ?  She  is  either  guilty  or  a 
pitiful  coward  !  I  was  disposed  to  credit  her  for  some- 
thing better." 

He  turned  and  strode  up  the  stairway,  instead  of 
going  out  as  at  first  he  had  intended  to  do,  hia 
face  stony,  lips  sternly  compressed,  and  dark  eyes 
blazing. 

Madeline  looked  after  him,  inwardly  wondering  why 
he  should  be  so  strongly  moved  ;  but  all  thought  of 
his  strange  conduct  fled  when  she  discovered  Agnes  at 
hei  side,  with  tightly  locked  hands,  and  a  face  from 


OR  A,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  147 

which  all  color  had  fled.  She  appeared  scarcely  to 
breathe  as  she  whispered  gaspingly. 

Lina,  Lina  !  did  you  say  she  had  gone  ?" 

Why,  yes,  child.  But — Agnes,  Agnes !  Papa, 
Come !" 

The  first  words  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  ere  the 
child  sank  lifeless  at  her  feet,  white  and  still  as  if 
death  had  smitten  her.  Dr.  Clifton  hastened  forward 
and  took  her  from  his  daughter's  arms,  carrying  her 
into  the  breakfast  room  and  dashing  water  over  her 
face. 

In  a  minute  she  recovered  conciousness,  but  turned 
her  face  into  the  sofa  pillows  on  which  they  laid  her, 
and  refused  to  be  comforted. 

"I  declare,"  exclaimed  Kate  recovering  from  her 
terror.  '^I  do  believe  our  governess  was  a  witch  and 
has  left  a  spell  upon  us  all.  Who  would  have  thought 
Aggie  could  care  so  much  about  anybody  ?" 

Hush  !  my  love,"  commanded  her  father.  He  bent 
tenderly  over  the  grieving  child. 

"Agnes,  darling,  dont  be  so  disturbed.  We  all 
feel  very  much  grieved,  but  I  am  afraid  she  is  not 
worth  the  feelings  we  have  wasted  on  her." 

With  the  aspect  of  a  little  fury  she  started  up  now, 
and  confronted  him  with  blazing  eyes. 

"  Dont  say  that !  Dont  anybody  dare  to  say  that 
of  her !  She  was  worth  all  and  more  than  we  could 
give  her  !  She  was  as  good  as  an  angel.  I  could  kill 
anybody,  to  hear  them  say  one  word  against  her  !  I 
wont  hear  it !  Oh  !  I  loved  her  so  much  !  and  now 
she's  gone— been  driven  away  by  a  bad,  bad  man  J 
Oh  !  there  is  nobody  to  love  me  now  !  I  shall  die !" 


148 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Choked  v/ith  aoguish.  she  sank  back  and  sobbed 
bitterly. 

"  Madeline,  take  this  girl  in  charge,  my  love.  I 
dont  know  how  to  manage  her,"  said  the  Dr.  pitying- 
ly, but  wearily.  Kate  stoutly  declared  she  ought  to 
be  well  whipped  for  being  so  saucy  to  papa,"  and 
Mary  looked  on  curiously.  With  tears  streaming  over 
her  face,  Madeline  gently  slipped  her  arm  around 
Agnes'  waist  and  drew  her  from  the  room  leading  her 
up  stairs  in  silence.  With  her  woman's  heart,  she 
comprehended,  in  a  measure,  something  of  the  wild 
grief  that  stirred  the  little  bosom  of  the  passionate 
orphan,  and  there  was  more  of  sorrow  than  anger  in 
the  quieting  words  she  uttered,  when  she  had  taken 
her  kindly  to  her  own  room  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

Meantime,  did  Ora  remember,  sitting  in  the  loneli- 
ness of  her  miserable  chamber,  how  this  child  would 
sorrow  for  her?  Yes,  and  wept  many,  many  bitter 
tears  over  the  memory. 

Since  the  moment  of  her  waking,  she  had  striven  to 
account  for  the  manner  in  which  she  left  the  house, 
but  vainly.  She  recalled  plainly  the  event  of  the  pro- 
ceeding day,  and  that  which  followed  in  the  evening ; 
but  beyond  that,  all  was  blank  until  she  found  herself 
alone,  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  seated  by  the  walls 
of  the  Battery.  A  thought  of  Harry,  and  that  pas- 
sionate confession,  crimsoned  her  brow  with  shame, — 
of  Agnes,  and  her  gentle  heart  ached  with  anguish — 
of  Madeline,  of  Dr.  Clifton,  and  she  was  overwhelmed 
with  contending  emotions  of  shame,  regret,  gratitude. 
What  would  they  think  of  her  now  !  Ah,  she  felt  but 
too  well  that  all  their  good  opinion  of  her  formerly 


OBA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


149 


must  give  way  now,  and  they  would  despise  her  for- 
ever !  She  must  have  fallen  asleep,  and  in  that  state 
left  the  house.  There  was  no  other  way  in  which 
conjecture  could  run.  If  they  had  put  her  out,  it 
would  not  have  been  in  the  middle  of  the  night — it 
could  not  have  been  done  without  some  knowledge  of 
the  act  on  her  part. 

The  day  passed  drearily  away.  Nothing  occurred 
to  distract  her  thoughts  from  her  misery,  except  neces. 
sary  care  of  Ada,  and  Mrs.  Jenkins'  officious  atten- 
tions. The  prattle  of  the  former  was  unceasing.  She 
was  full  of  wondier  at  their  strange  surroundings,  and 
asked  numberless  questions.  The  poor  mother  was 
glad  when  slumber  at  last  laid  a  temporary  seal  upon 
the  curious  eyes,  and  hushed  the  childish  voice  to 
quietude,  as  night  softly  folded  her  dark  mantle  over 
slumbering  Nature. 

A  week  passed  away  in  this  miserable  state.  All 
of  the  meagre  sum  her  purse  contained,  was  at  length 
expended,  and  Ora  was  obliged  to  sell  her  watch  to 
supply  her  wants.  It  was  hard  to  part  with  so  useful 
an  article,  endeared  to  her  by  long  use  and  past  asso- 
ciations. But  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  in- 
debtedness to  the  coarse,  curious  woman  under  whose 
roof  she  had  taken  shelter,  and  as  yet  she  could  not 
muster  courage  to  go  forth  in  the  world,  seeking  for 
labor  which  she  felt  herself  unable  to  perform. 

There  were  a  few  other  female  boarders  in  the  house, 
of  whom  she  caught  a  glimpse  occasionally.  They 
came  and  went  every  day,  as  if  intent  upon  their 
several  avocations.  One  frail,  sallow  looking  being, 
with  a  dry,  hard  cough,  passed  her  room  every  morn- 


150 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


ing  with  a  bundle  under  her  arm  which  she  carried  to 
her  own  chamber,  taking  it  away  again  in  the  evening. 
Ora  surmised  rightly,  that  the  woman  was  a  seam- 
stress, bringing  and  carrying  away  her  daily  work. 

One  morning  she  accosted  her  as  she  went  by,  with 
a  question. 

"  Good  morning.  Is  that  sewing  you  have  with 
you  ?" 

The  woman  looked  at  her  and  answered  shortly. 
"  Yes." 

"  Pardon  me,  but  where  do  you  get  it  ?  Can  I  obtain 
some  from  the  same  place  ?  I  want  to  do  something." 

"  I  dont  know."  The  woman  said  stopping  and 
turning  square  around.  Perhaps  you  can,  but  you 
dont  look  much  fit  to  do  it,  any  more  than  mj'self." 

Her  language  though  half  rude  in  tone,  was  not 
without  an  air  of  culture.    She  spoke  like  an  educa- 
ted person.    Looking  at  her  intently,  Ora  became  in 
terested. 

"  I  should  really  like  to  try,  if  you  will  tell  me 
where  to  go.    Is  it  asking  too  much  of  you?" 

No,  I  will  help  you  if  I  can.  You  have  a  child, 
havn't  you  ?" 

''Yes." 

"  Then  if  the  work  can  be  had,  to-morrow  morning 
I  will  bring  a  double  portion  so  you  need  not  leave 
her.  You  can  take  the  work  to  your  room  and  try  it, 
and  get  your  part  of  the  pay  w^hen  it  is  done." 

"  Thank  you  !  you  are  very  kind,  but — "  The 
woman  did  not  stop  to  hear  her  finish  the  sentence. 
Entering  her  chamber,  she  closed  the  door  abruptly. 

The  image  of  this  hollow  eyed,  sallow  faced  woman 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


151 


haunted  Ora  all  day.  She  could  not  rest  when  she 
remembered  how  frail  and  worn  she  looked. 

Mrs.  Jenkins  with  a  species  of  rude  delicacy,  sent 
or  brought  Ora's  meals  to  her  room.  After  dinner  on 
that  day,  when  the  things  had  been  cleared  away,  ehe 
went  resolutely  to  the  stranger's  door  and  knocked. 
She  expected  to  be  repulsed,  but  a  good  impulse  was 
working  in  her  heart,  and  she  determined  to  persevere 
in  the  purpose  which  had  taken  possession  of  her. 

The  first  tap  was  unheeded.  The  second  brought 
the  inmate  to  the  door.  She  looked  surprised  when 
she  saw  who  her  visitor  was,  and  asked  ungraciously : 

'^What  do  you  want?" 

''I  am  doing  nothing,  and  feel  tired  of  idleness. 
Let  me  help  you  with  the  work  you  have  on  hand." 

"  I  cant  do  it.  I  have  need  for  all  I  shall  get  to- 
day for  my  work." 

You  mistake  me.  I  do  not  want  the  money.  I 
have  enough  for  present  purposes.  I  only  w^ant  some- 
thing  to  keep  me  busy.  You  are  looking  tired,  too, 
and  if  I  help  you,  you  will  get  done  sooner,  so  you 
can  rest." 

Ora's  voice  was  full  of  sweet,  womanly  sympathy. 
The  stranger  looked  at  her  sharply,  but  was  evidently 
softened  by  her  manner,  even  while  answering  her  in 
the  same  abrupt  tone. 

"  Poor  people  cannot  afibrd  to  work  for  anybody  but 
themselves,  and  you  are  poor,  I  fancy,  or  you  w^ould 
not  be  here.  When  you  have  toiled  as  long  for  your 
daily  bread  as  I  have,  you  will  know  better  than  to 
give  away  your  time  and  strength  for  nothing." 

''Ah,  but  remember  that  my  time  is  better  spen 


152  OEA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


in  aiding  yon,  when  I  see  yon  looking  worn  and  ill, 
than  in  doing  nothing.  The  bnsy  fingers,  you  know, 
always  lead  tfie  brain  away  from  that  which  most 
wearies  it.  You  will  do  me  a  kindness,  to  let  me 
help  you." 

Well,  if  you  are  determined,  you  may  wait  here; 
I  will  get  the  work  for  you." 

She  closed  the  door  in  her  face,  and  left  her  stand- 
ing there  for  several  minutes.  Then  she  c  ime  out 
and  gave  her  a  garment  placed  and  basted  ready  to 
sew. 

''Do  you  know  anything  about  such  work ?"  she 
asked  as  Ora  took  it  from  her  hands. 

O,  yes.  I  think  1  can  sew  most  anything,  respect- 
ably." 

Ora  smiled  pleasantly  as  she  said  the  words.  Her 
heart  was  very  heavy,  but  she  saw  a  woman,  poor 
and  friendless  like  herself,  toiling  on  alone.  The  time 
might  come  when  a  smile  and  word  of  sympathy 
would  appear  like  a  priceless  boon  to  her  weary 
soul,  even  as  a  smile  and  kind  word  might  prove  to 
this  stranger. 

"•When  you  get  tired,  come  and  give  it  back  to  me. 
Dont  weary  yourself  too  much  with  it." 
No  fear  of  that." 

Each  went  into  their  own  rooms,  and  Ora's  swift 
fingers  plied  the  needle  steadily,  while  her  thoughts 
were  busy  with  her  neighbor.  It  was  weH  that  some- 
thing had  come  between  her  and  the  brooding  thoughts 
of  personal  suffering,  and  that  interest  in  another 
won  her  from  herself.  She  was  fast  becoming  unfitted 
for  struggling  with  the  difficulties  of  her  new  position. 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


153 


Ada  took  a  little  pile  of  blocks  which  Mrs.  Jenkins 
had  given  her,  and  amused  herself  with  building  houses 
and  prattling  of  a  thousand  things  while  so  engaged. 
Sometimes  the  mother  paused  to  watch  her,  and  with 
loving  kindness,  answer  her  questions.  But  a  thought 
of  the  pale  woman  across  the  hall,  would  again  set 
her  fingers  to  going,  and  before  dark,  she  had 
finished  the  work  very  neatly,  and  carried  it  to  the 
owner. 

Standing  closely  in  the  door  which  she  opened  but 
slightly,  the  woman  examined  it  minutely, then  she 
looked  up  and  said  : 

"  You  sew  very  well,  and  have  done  it  quickly.  I 
thank  you  for  your  aid." 

Without  farther  words,  she  turned  and  again  shut 
the  door  in  her  face.  Evidently  she  willed  to  live  in 
severe  seclusion.  Ora  was  too  refined,  and  tender  of 
other's  feelings  to  wish  to  pry  into  their  lives,  but  she 
felt  strangely  interested  in  this  poor  forlorn  being,  and 
was  almost  disposed  to  feel  disappointed  at  the  deci- 
ded treatment  she  received  at  her  hands. 

At  the  moment  she  turned  away,  Mrs.  Jenkins 
came  up  stairs. 

''What,"  she  said.  "Have  you  been  trying  to  git 
acquainted  with  that  queer  bird  ?  You'll  find  it  hard 
work,  if  that's  your  game.  She  has  been  in  that 
room  over  a  month  now,  and  not  a  blessed  soul  has 
seen  the  inside  since  thar  she's  been.  Once  I  went  to 
have  a  little  chat  cause  she  appeared  so  lonesome  like, 
but  she  gave  me  to  understand  that  my  room  was 
better  than  my  company,  an'  refused  to  let  me  in.  I 
pretended  to  be  offended  that  I  couldn't  visit  ladies  in 


154 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


my  own  house,  an'  hinted  as  much  to  her,  when  she 
up  an'  said  so  proud  like  : 

'''Madam,  I  pay  you  what  you  ask  for  the  room. 
While  I  do  this  it  is  mine^  and  I  shall  receive  whom- 
soever I  please.  Understand,  that  I  have  no  time  to 
waste  in  gossip,  and  no  deeire  for  such  pastime  if  I 
had.'" 

''  She  puts  on  airs,  I  tell  you,  but  she  pays  me  a 
good  price,  regular  every  week  to  the  day  an'  hour,  so 
I  keeps  her.    But  she's  mighty  queer." 

Ora  had  no  desire  for  a  gossip  with  her  communi- 
tive  landlady,  and  on  a  trifling  pretext,  entered  her 
room  as  soon  as  she  could  break  away. 

A  few  more  days  passed ,  but  now  employment 
rendered  the  weary  woman  more  content  with  her 
changed  estate.  Every  day  her  neighbor  brought  her 
work  from  the  store  where  she  obtained  her  own,  and 
carried  it  back  when  done.  The  pittance  gained  was 
slight,  but  every  night  it  was  punctually  paid  into  her 
hand,  and  it  was  that  much  assurance  against  future 
want. 


CHAPTER  XVL 


Charles  Lafarge  sat  in  his  room,  lazily  puffin^; 
forth  blue  volumes  of  smoke  from  a  choice  cigar,  and 
watching  the  thin,  spiral  wreaths  rise  upward  and 
melt  away,  when  a  heavy  knock  upon  the  door  startled 
him  from  the  pleasing  indulgence.  The  next  moment 
Guy  Bartoni  was  in  the  room,  looking  excited  and 
impatient. 

"Halloa,  Guy!  you  are  late,  old  boy.  What  has 
kept  you  so  long?". 

"  Why,  the  devil's  to  pay  !"  was  he  profane  and 
emphatic  rejoinder. 

"  How  ?  what's  gone  wrong  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  but  everything  will  go  wrong,  if  we 
dont  look  out." 

Guy  drew  a  chair  close  to  his  friend,  and  sat  down. 
His  face  was  very  dark  and  troubled. 

''Charley,  you  remember  Antoinette  Wade?" 

"  Yes,  I  should  think  so." 

"  Well,  she  is  in  New  York !" 

"The  devil  she  is!" 

Both  faces  were  now  clouded  with  deep  concern. 

''  Yes,"  continued  Guy,  ''she  is  here;  I  cannot  be 
mistaken.  For  more  than  a  week  I  have  followed  her 
at  various  times,  trying  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  face, 
which  was  concealed  by  a  thick  veil.  I  first  saw  her 
come  out  of  L — 's  store  on  Broadway,  and  something: 
(155)  '  ' 


156  ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


in  her  carriage  attracted  me.  I  followed  her  then, 
but  lost  her  in  the  crowd.  Since  that  I  have  seen  her 
several  times,  always  losing  her  as  at  first.  Last 
Saturday,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  in  the  Park,  but 
was  no  more  successful  in  seeing  her  face  than  on 
former  occasions.  The  Keeper  told  me  that  she  came 
there  every  Saturday  since  the  weather  had  been  warm 
enough,  and  he  has  never  seen  her  raise  her  veil 
once." 

"  This  afternoon  as  I  came  up  Broadway  pretty  late 
I  met  Sefton,  who,  clapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  con- 
gratulated me  on  my  approaching  marriage  with  MisB 
Clifton.  We  stood  talking  for  several  minutes,  and  I 
had  just  uttered  the  words  :  '  Yes,  the  day  has  been 
fixed,  at  last,  and  I  shall  have  the  loveliest  bride  in  New 
York,'  when  I  felt  some  one  press  almost  rudely 
against  me,  and  a  little  piece  of  card  board  was  slipped 
in  my  hand  which  hung  at  my  side.    Here  it  is." 

He  handed  it  to  Charley  as  he  spoke.  In  faint, 
delicate  tracery  was  pencilled  : 

"  Two  wives  will  imprison  yoic  for  bigamy, 

"And  what  became  of  the  person?  You  saw  her 
who  slipped  this  in  your  hand?" 

''Yes,  it  was  the  veiled  woman.  I  did  not  want 
Sefton  to  understand  the  affair,  and  put  him  ofi*  laugh- 
ingly when  he  questioned  me  curiously  as  to  what  it 
meant.  As  soon  as  I  could, I  got  away  and  followed 
her,  but  she  was  no  where  to  be  seen.  All  the  evening 
has  been  passed  fruitlessly,  and  that  it  was  which  kept 
me  so  late." 

You  think  this  woman  was  Antoinette?" 
Yes,  I  am  confident  of  the  fact," 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


157 


"Bad!  bad!  Doubtless  she  heard  you  name  the 
lady,  and  the  appointed  day  for  3^our  marriage?" 

''Too  surely,  Ifear;  and  if  she  did,  the  game's  up. 
ISTo  hope  of  the  allair  being  over,  and  we  safely  olf  for 
Europe  before  she  can  do  all  the  mischief  that  lies  in 
her  power.  I  say,  Charley,  she  must  be  found,  and 
safely  disposed  of.  I  thought  myself  safe,  when  that 
little  white-faced  governess  was  out  of  the  way,  but 
here  a  more  dangerous  foe  steps  in  her  shoes.  By  the 
Lord,  if  I  ever  set  eyes  on  her  again,  I  will  not  let 
her  escape !" 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  her  when  you 
get  her  ?"  questioned  Lafarge. 

Guy  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  ceiling  for  a  full 
minute  before  answering. 

"I  have  thought  of  a  way,"  he  said,  turning  a 
strange  look  upon  his  companion.  "  You  remember 
Jarvis?  He  is  still  on  hand,  though  he  has  removed 
the  basis  of  operations  to  a  distant  locality  from  the 
old  quarters.  I  told  you  all  about  him  before  we  came 
here." 

"  Yes,  I  do  remember,  but  is  it  safe,  quite  safe, 
Guy?" 

"  Pshaw!  yes!  Money  will  do  anything.  I  have 
the  old  fellow  under  my  thumb,  and  he's  bound  to  do 
my  will.  He  has  more  at  stake  in  the  game  than  I 
have,  and  blowing  on  me  would  hardly  answer. 
Besides,  she's  alone  here.  Who  is  there  to  interest 
themselves  to  find  her  out?  I  tell  you,  those  institu- 
tions are  capital  when  a  fellow  wants  to  get  rid  of 
ixovih\Q^omQ  frieiids 

"How  will  you  manage  the  affair?" 


158 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE.* 


''That  remains  to  be  seen.  Circumstances  must 
guide  me  for  the  present,  and  will,  no  doubt,  soon 
develope  a  plan  of  action." 

"  Very  well,  you  know  best,  old  fellow  !  May  you 
be  successful.  But  come ;  are  we  to  keep  our  engage- 
ment with  your  fair  fiancee  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Plenty  of  time,  if  we  go  at  once.  Are 
you  ready  ?" 

The  two  descended  the  stairs,  went  out  upon  the 
street,  and  with  arm  locked  in  arm  proceeded  toward 
Dr.  Clifton's. 

Madeliiie  had  that  evening  a  small  company  of  select 
friends  for  the  enjoyment  of  a  private  musical  enter- 
tainment. Some  of  the  most  cultivated  talent  in  the 
great  city,  were  collected  in  the  spacious  music  room, 
now  one  blaze  of  brilliance  and  beauty.  The  young 
hostess  was  looking  surpassingly  lovely,  as  she  moved 
among  her  guests  ;  a  dress  of  silver  grey  silk,  fitting 
closely  to  her  perfect  form,  coming  up  to  the  throat, 
and  falling  away  in  wide  flowing  sleeves  from  the 
white  arms.  Guy  had  never  seen  her  more  beautiful, 
and  a  pang  wrung  the  guilty  heart  when  he  remem- 
bered how  unworthy  he  was  of  such  a  treasure. 
Perhaps  she  might  never  be  his  !  There  was  a  dark 
Fate  over  them.  Should  she  suffer  the  sable  veil  to 
fall  between  him  and  his  love,  he  was  lost  eternally. 

He  approached  her  with  apologies  for  his  tardiness, 
but  in  his  heart  he  was  muttering  desperate  vows  to 
win  her  or  die  in  the  effort.  He  was  more  determined, 
now  that  a  possibility  of  losing  her  appeared  to  his 
awakened  heart. 

That  night  the  mansion  rung  with  mirth  and  music. 


ORAj  THE  LOST  WIFE. 


159 


Wit  and  liiunor  flashed  fortli  amid  jewels  of  tlioiri^ht, 
and  every  heart  in  the  little  assembly  beat  to  a  meas- 
ure that  is  the  nearest  akin  to  perfect  happiness  the 
soul  can  reach,  while  confined  in  an  earthly  casket. 

Guy  was  the  last  to  leave  when  the  little  ])arty 
broke  up.  While  the  servants  were  putting  out  the 
lights,  he  drew  his  betrothed  into  the  grand  old  library 
where  they  had  spent  many  happy  evenings  together, 
and  took  a  lover's  leave. 

''Ah!"  he  whispered,  "how  hard  it  is  to  say 
'  good  bye,'  even  though  for  a  little  while.  How 
impatient  I  am  for  the  time  to  come  when  I  may 
never  more  leave  you,  darling  Madeline." 

He  drew  her  blushingly  within  his  arms,  and  pressed 
a  kiss  on  the  pure  forehead.  It  was  the  last  kiss  he 
ever  printed  there. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


April  had  passed  with  her  showers  and  sunshine, 
and  May  took  up  her  buds  and  blossoms,  weaving 
them  into  a  wreath  to  twine  about  her  brow  as  she 
smilingly  began  her  journey  in  the  new  year. 

As  the  weather  grew  warmer,  Mrs.  Meredith  grew 
more  and  more  oppressed  with  a  heavy  torpor  that 
settled  over  her  whole  being.  It  was  with  very  great 
effort  tnat  she  continued  the  work  with  which  her 
strange  friend  supplied  her.  In  two  weeks  time  from 
the  beginning,  she  found  herself  unable  to  perform 
her  usual  task  of  daily  labor. 

In  the  last  few  days,  her  neighbor  had  appeared 
more  taciturn  and  stern  than  usual.  Now  she  came 
in,  tapped  at  Ora's  door,  and  laid  down  the  bundle 
without  a  word,  passing  to  her  own  room  without  ever 
seeming  to  think  of  the  curiosity  such  conduct  might 
excite.  In  the  evening  she  carried  it  away  again  in 
the  same  manner.  She  usually  came  in  after  this 
was  done,  about  eight  o'clock,  and  was  seen  no  more 
until  the  following  morning. 

It  was  the  day  following  that  on  which  Guy  Bartoni 
had  been  alarmed  by  the  incident  on  Broadway,  that 
she  came  to  Ora's  room  early  in  the  afternoon  with  a 
neat  roll  of  work  in  her  hand.  Her  manner  was  not 
less  distant  than  usual,  but  there  was  a  something 
(160) 


OKA^    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


161 


strangely  sweet  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke,  handiti^^ 
the  bundle  to  Mrs.  Meredith  as  she  did  so : 

"I  have  an  important  errand  to  do  this  afternoon, 
but  I  have  promised,  this  work  shall  go  home  as 
usual  to-night.  I  have  not  time  to  linish  it  and 
accomplish  the  other,  so  I  come  to  you.  If  you  will 
do  it,  I  will  make  the  consideration  equal  to  the 
task." 

She  was  looking  straight  at  the  pale,  fast  fading 
face  of  the  sufferer  as  she  spoke,  and  noting  the  rapid 
change  of  the  last  few  days,  drew  back  and  said 
hesitatingly: 

Yet  I  ought  not  to  set  you  at  a  double  task 
You  have  enough  of  yoisr  own,  which  it  is  quite  as 
necessary  to  linish,  and  are  already  worn  almost  to 
death.  I  am  worse  than  blind  to  have  tliought  of 
it.  I  would  not,  had  it  not  seemed  so  imperative. 
I  have  tried  to  put  it  off,  but  all  day  something  haunted 
me,  urging  the  necessity  of  immediate  action.  Much 
may  depend  upon  it — the  peace  and  happiness  of  a 
life-time  are  often  marred  by  an  hour's  neglect  of  a 
duty  we  owe  to  others.  Yet  I  don't  know  just  how 
I  ought  to  act  in  this.  I  have  passed  my  word,  and 
do  not  like  to  break  it." 

"  Dont  think  of  it.  I  can  easily  do  what  is  neces- 
sary," answered  Ora,  taking  the  work  from  her 
reluctant  hand.  "  If  there  is,  as  you  hint,  an  abso- 
lute necessity  of  performing  a  duty  to  secure  another's 
happiness,  you  would  be  culpably  wTong  to  neglect 
that  duty.  Go  by  all  means,  and  do  not  feel  concerned 
for  me.  God  will  give  me  strength  for  the  labor  I 
am  compelled  to  perform." 


162 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  Do  you  honestly  believe  that  ?"  queried  the  woman 
with  an  intense  look  that  held  Ora's  gaze  in  spite  cf 
herself. 

"Assuredly  I  do." 

'^Then  cling  to  your  faith  P'^  was  returned  impres- 
sively ;  but  the  words  were  followed  by  a  short  hard 
laugh  strangely  at  variance  with  her  manner  as  she 
uttered  them.  Then  she  added  half  in  explana- 
tion: 

''I  once  had  faith,  but  I  have  lost  it — aye  !  even 
in  God!  Dont  stare.  It  began  in  my  own  home, 
among  friends  I  trusted,  and  the  evil  followed  me 
till  all  confidence  in  mortals  fled,' and  with  it,  my  faith 
in  God,  eventually.  You  look  what  I  know  you  feel, 
but  it  is  true,  and  your  horror  will  not  change  the 
bitter  truth.  I  would  give  my  life  for  one  tithe  of 
my  old  trust.  Then  I  had  charity,  and  now  I  have 
none.  Without  charity,  the  human  heart  is  like  a 
flower  without  either  dew  or  rain  to  nourish  it,  and 
everything  beautiful  or  lovely  in  it  fades.  Dry  and 
dead,  without  odor  or  color — how  do  we  look  upon  it  ? 
Just  like  that  flower  is  my  heart  to-day,  without  faith, 
hope  or  charity.  Oh !  see  to  it,  that  you  preserve 
your  faith,  woman !" 

Hard,  bitter,  almost  passionate  were  the  tones  in 
which  this  was  delivered.  The  wonderin2:  hearer 
looked  with  pity  upon  the  wretched  being  vv^^ho  could 
declare  herself  so  dead  to  all  that  was  good  and 
noble  in  nature.  But  her  close  observation  here  aided 
her  in  a  fitting  reply. 

How  strange  it  seems  that  people  will  sometimes 
misrepresent  themselves.     If  your  heart  were  the 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


1G3 


dead  thing  you  call  it,  you  would  be  utterly  incapable 
of  one  ennobling  emotion." 

"And  am  I  not?"  was  the  bitter  response.  '^I 
feel  as  if  I  never  can  again  on  earth  know  a  good 
thought,  do  a  good  deed.    I  don't  care  !" 

"Do  you  know  you  are  not  speaking  truth?"  asked 
Ora,  steadily. 

"  Why,  how  dare  you  say  that  to  me  ?"  said  the 
woman  hastily  and  with  growing  excitement. 

"Come,  do  not  get  angry.  I  mean  no  unkindness. 
I  only  want  to  prove  to  you  how  unjustly  you  abuse 
yourself,"  Mrs.  Meredith  hastened  to  say  gently,  but 
still  with  firmness.  "  In  the  first  place,  unwilling  to 
break  your  word  to  your  employers,  you  bring  this 
work  and  ask  me  to  finish  it  that  they  may  not  be 
disappointed.  That  betrays  good  feeling  and  a  beau- 
tiful principle  of  truth  and  honesty.  Then  you  assign 
as  another  reason,  a  duty  to  perform  on  which  rests 
the  happiness  of  some  one.  To  perform  that  duty, 
you  inconvenience  yourself.  In  your  desire  to  pre- 
serve the  happiness  of  others — in  your  reluctance  to 
overtask  me  because  I  look  worn  and  ill — in  all 
combined,  you  have  here  in  a  few  moments  shown 
me  that  you  are  truthful,  generous,  and  kind.  The 
world  may  have  embittered  you  with  its  cruelty  and 
injustice,  but  God  endowed  you  nobly  in  the  begin- 
ning, and  the  seeds  of  His  goodness  are  still  in  the 
heart  you  would  have  me  believe  dead  to  good 
emotions.  Why  will  you  do  yourself  and  your 
Creator  such  wrong?" 

As  Ora  finished,  her  hearer  stood  gazing. at  her  in 
undisguised  astonishment.    She  had  never  looked 


164 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


upon  the  frail,  delicate,  seemingly  dependent,  help- 
less woman  with  a  thought  of  such  strength  in  her 
nature.  Her  firm,  straightforward,  yet  gentle  reproof 
stunned  her  for  several  moments  into  utter  silence. 
Then  she  smiled  faintly,  and  replied  in  a  half  musing 
tone : 

"  Some  people  seem  to  have  the  faculty  of  jBnding 
pearls  buried  in  mud,  where  none  would  ever  dream 
of  the  existence  of  a  gem.  I  shall  class  you  in  the 
number  of  these  rarities,"  and  without  further  words 
turned  abruptly  away,  and  descended  the  stairs. 

This  strange  conversation  with  the  strange  woman, 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  Ora's  mind,  and  as 
she  sat  sewing,  she  thought  of  everything  that  had 
been  said,  and  mused  upon  it.  Time  passed  almost 
unheeded  while  thus  engaged.  She  did  not  leave  her 
work  or  think  of  leaving  it,  until  gathering  shadows 
rendered  her  unable  to  see.  Then  she  remembered 
that  it  was  the  hour  for  carrying  the  work  home,  and 
momently  expected  the  return  of  her  neighbor. 

Hastily  lighting  her  little  lamp,  she  rather  ner- 
vously took  up  the  work  again,  eager  to  finish  it 
before  her  return,  and  fearing  her  ability  to  do  it.  It 
wanted  a  good  half  hour's  work  before  completing, 
and  feeling  weary  now  that  her  mind  was  recalled 
from  its  thought  realms,  she  surveyed  the  arti(*le 
ruefully.  But  the  desire  to  get  through  was  strong, 
and  nerving  herself  for  the  task,  the  needle  flew  in 
and  out  of  the  cloth  like  a  little  glancing  ray  of  light. 
Ada  had  become  tired  of  play,  and  begged  for  her 
supper ;  but  with  a  few  words  of  encouragement, 
she  put  her  off  till  the  task  was  finished.    A  little 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


1G5 


story  served  to  keep  her  quiet  for  a  time,  and  at  last 
the  mother  with  a  deep  sigli  of  relief,  rose  and  folded 
the  finished  g^arment  and  wrapped  it  up.  ISho  felt 
thankful  for  the  strength  which  had  sustained  her  to 
the  completion,so  that  the  woman  might  not  be  disap- 
pointed. But  as  time  still  sped  and  she  did  not  come, 
a  feeling  of  uneasiness  began  to  take  the  place  of 
gratification.  She  gave  Ada  her  supper  and  then  sat 
awhile  to  amuse  her  with  little  songs  and  stories,  as 
was  her  custom.  Ora  loved  her  child  beyond  any 
earthly  thing,  and  felt  the  necessity  of  perfect  free- 
dom of  intercourse  between  herself  and  her  daughter, 
to  establish  that  affection  and  confidence  so  lovely 
in  such  relations.  It  was  her  constant  effort  and  care 
to  lay  her  little  daughter  to  rest  with  a  happy  heart. 
No  cloud  must  settle  over  the  pure  young  mind  to  mar 
it  with  hideous  visions  in  sleep.  A  sweet,  soothing 
Bong  as  a  lullaby,  or  a  pretty  little  story  to  amuse 
and  please  her,  were  the  regular  routine,  together 
with  the  little  prayer,  after  which  the  blue  eyes  closed 
peacefully,  and  the  happy  child  was  at  rest.  These 
hours  were  sometimes  heavily  taxing,  but  oftener 
served  to  soothe  and  quiet  her  own  overstrained 
nerves.  The  happiness  she  strove  to  spread  as  sun- 
light over  the  fair  head  of  her  innocent  child,  reflected 
into  her  own  troublous  life, a  ray  that  brightened  its 
darkness  and  kept  hope  and  energy  alive.  On  this 
evening  it  acted  like  a  charm.  After  the  little  lashes 
had  settled  upon  the  soft  cheek  in  sweet  repose,  Ora 
sat  by  her  a  long  time  in  quiet,  peaceful  thought. 
The  clock  on  Mrs.  Jenkins'  mantel  piece  below  stairs 
striking  ten,  at  length  aroused  her. 


166 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  Ten !  and  she  has  not  come !  What  can  have  hap 
pened  to  keep  her?"  she  murmured.  A  feeling  of 
alarm  began  to  take  entire  possession  of  her.  She 
was  more  interested  in  this  strange  being  than  she 
had  ever  realized  until  now,  and  she  soon  found  her- 
self striving  to  devise  a  means  of  tracing  her.  A 
moment's  thought,  however,  convinced  her  of  the 
futility  of  such  an  effort.  She  had  not  the  most 
remote  idea  of  the  direction  she  had  gone,  and  it  was 
growing  late  at  night.  All  thought  of  search  was 
foUy. 

She  remained  waiting  and  listening  for  her  foot- 
steps till  after  midnight,  when  the  thought  occurred 
to  her  that  she  might  have  come  in  while  she  was 
engaged  with  Ada,  and  it  then  being  too  late  to 
carry  the  work  to  the  store,  which  closed  early,  she 
had  gone  to  her  own  room  and  retired. 

It  seemed  so  probable,  that  Ora  now  endeavored 
to  dismiss  her  fears  and  try  to  get  some  sleep.  Fear 
of  disturbing  the  household  prevented  her  assuring 
herself  fully  by  knocking  at  the  door  and  ascertaining 
the  truth;  so  she  at  length  retired  and  soon  fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 


"  Sister,  there  is  a  strange  woman  down  stairs  who 
says  she  must  see  you.  Mollie  says  she  looks  wild, 
and  told  her  to  go  away,  but  she  wont  do  it  till  she 
sees  you." 

Kate  burst  into  her  sister's  room  excitedly,  and 
|clelivered  this  little  piece  of  intelligence.  Madeline 
rose  from  the  work  on  which  she  was  engaged,  in 
I  wonder  and  curiosity. 

I  "A  strange  woman,  Katie  ?  what  can  she  want 
with  me?  I'll  go  and  see,  however.  Some  beggar, 
perhaps." 

!    "  No,  she  dont  look  like  a  beggar,"  asserted  Kate, 
positively.      But  she  does  look  like  a  crazy  woman. 
[  feel  afraid  of  her.    Dont  go  down,  Lina." 
I      Nonsense,  my  child,  she  could  do  me  no  possible 
tiarm,  even  were  she  what  you  imagine." 

Kate  followed  Madeline  from  the  room  and  stopped 
jnpon  the  landing  where  she  could  see  the  stranger, 
Ivvho  sat  upon  the  hall  sofa  waiting.  She  rose  with 
in  air  of  proud  deprecation  as  the  young  girl  ap- 
proached her,  but  the  keen  eyes  swept  her  from  head 
i:o  foot  at  a  glance.  The  slight  expression  of  trouble 
and  fear  went  out  as  the  survey  was  completed,  and  a 
sorrowful  pity  took  its  place.  Madeline  fancied  that 
i^he  saw  a  mist  obscure  the  strange  orbs  as  she  gazed 
in  surprise  upon  her  visitor's  face. 
(167) 


168 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


''You  wished  to  see  me?"  she  asked,  kindly 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

''Nothing,  lady,  except  to  listen  to  what  I  have 
come  tell  you.  Will  you  take  me  somewhere  that  I 
may  speak  to  you  freely  without  being  heard  by  others  ?• 
Do  not  distrust  me.  The  request  is  a  strange  one  for 
a  stranger  to  make,  but  I  make  it  for  your  own  sake. 
You  would  not  wish  others  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say 
to  you." 

With  increasing  wonder,  Madeline  turned  to  the 
library  and  bade  the  woman  follow  her.  On  entering, 
she  pointed  her  to  a  seat. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said.  "You  look  tired.  Now, 
what  have  you  to  say  to  me?  I  am  impatient  to 
hear." 

An  unmistakable  mist  now  gathered  in  the  dark 
eyes,  and  the  woman's  voice  faltered  painfully. 

"  Believe  me.  Miss  Clifton,  I  would  rather  perform 
any  task  than  that  which  brings  me  here  ;  but  you  are 
in  peril,  and  I  dared,  not  hesitate  to  discharge  the  duty 
I  owe  you.  It  is  doubly  hard  now  that  I  have  seen 
you.  You  look  so  young  and  trusting.  Yes,  it  is 
very  hard  to  tell  you  that  which  may,  perhaps,  change 
the  whole  current  of  your  life,  even  as  mine  has  been 
changed." 

"You  speak  in  riddles,"  replied  Madeline,  with 
growing  impatience.  "  How  can  I  be  in  peril — of 
what?    Please  come  to  the  point  at  once." 

"I  will.  Pardon  me  if  I  am  over  blunt.  I  would 
not  seem  impertinent.  But  you  are  engaged  to  be 
married  to — to — Guy  Bartoni  ?" 

A  spasm  contracted  the  sallow  features,  as  if  severe 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


1G9 


pain  accompanied  the  mention  of  the  name.  All  the 
color  forsook  Madeline's  cheek  on  the  instant,  and  she 
gazed  speechlessly  at  her  visitor,  ere  she  could  articu- 
late : 

"Well,  and  if  I  am,  what  then  ?" 

Instead  of  replying,  the  woman  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  her  frame  shook  violently,  either 
with  pain  or  passion.  A  cold  horror  crept  over  the 
frame  of  the  young  girl  as  she  looked  upon  the  strange, 
plainly  habited,  cowering  creature  before  her.  Her 
evident  poverty  ;  her  shame  and  distress,  told  a  pain- 
ful story.  Madeline's  heart  lay  like  lead  in  her  bosom, 
and  a  cry  like  a  wail  burst  from  her  lips : 

"Do  not,  do  not  tell  me  what  I  fear — do  not  say 
that  he  has  wronged  you  !" 

The  woman  looked  up  quickly,  and  a  hard,  stern 
look  replaced  the  pitiful  anguish  it  had  shown  but  a 
moment  before. 

"But  I  do  say  it!  Aye!  he  has  hitterly  wronged 
me,  and  would  add  to  the  black  sin  with  which  his 
soul  is  stained,  by  wronging  you  likewise.  Ah,  I  see 
by  the  horror  in  your  face  what  you  are  thinking  ;  but 
you  are  mistaken  !  I  was,  a  few  years  ago,  as  fair  as 
you,  and  as  pure — P  believe  as  good  as  you  can  be. 
It  is  suffering  which  has  changed  me,  not  sin,  .as  you 
think!  My  only  sin  has  been  in  the  mere  tact  of  ever 
having  loved  a  man  so  black-hearted  as  Guy  Bartoni ; 
and  I  do  believe  it  must  be  sin,  deep  and  deadly,  to 
love  such  as  he  !  But  I  must  give  you  proof  of  what 
I  say.    This  will  explain  all." 

She  took  a  folded  paper  from  her  bosom  and  handed 
it  to  Madeline,  who  received  it  with  a  shiver.  A 

15 


170 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


terrible  dread  paralyzed  her.  She  had  scarcely  power 
to  unfold  the  little  slip  of  writing  she  held.  When 
she  did,  a  numbness  froze  her  blood  till  even  her 
breath  seemed  stilled  as  she  read.  It  was  a  certificate 
of  marriage,  duly  signed,  and  bore  the  date  of  nearly 
two  years  back. 

Poor  Madeline  lifted  her  eyes  piteously  to  the  face 
of  the  stranger. 

"And  you — you  are — his — wife?" 

"  Yes,  lady,  I  am  his  wife,  or  the  law  makes  me  so 
in  the  world's  eyes.  But  I  had  sworn  new  to  call 
myself  by  the  name  again,  and  should  not,  but  to  save 
you.  1  could  die  when  I  think  how  I  once  loved  him 
— false,  perjured  villain  that  he  is  !  Oh,  he  is  not 
worth  a  thought,  except  of  scorn  !" 

The  thin  figure  was  erect — the  eyes  blazing — the 
proud  lips  curled — the  very  personification  of  the 
scorn  she  expressed.  Madeline  caught  a  portion  of 
the  outraged  spirit  of  the  wife,  and  a  tide  of  resentful 
feeling,  smothered  the  pain  that  threatened  to  madden 
her.  Her  voice  grew  stronger  and  steadier  as  she 
spoke : 

"  Tell  me  everything.  I  would  understand  the  full 
extent  of  his  deception." 

The  woman  lifted  her  hands  and  pressed  them  tightly 
over  her  forehead  for  several  seconds.  Then  she  began 
slowly. 

"  I  must  be  very  brief.  I  can  only  tell  you  enough 
to  satisfy  you  of  my  truth.  I  am  a  native  of  the 
South.  It  was  there  that  I  first  met  with  Guy 
Bartoni.  He  was  traveling  for  pleasure,  and  it  was 
at  the  Springs  I  first  saw  him.    The  acquaintanco 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


171 


was  but  temporary,  yet  he  appeared  pleased  witli  my 
society,  and  I  regretted  when  the  time  came  for  us  to 
part.  I  never  heard  from  him  after  my  return  home 
to  Louisiana,  and  had  nearly  forgotten  him,  when  we 
met  again  unexpectedly.  It  was  at  St.  Pauls,  Min- 
nesota, and  I  was  with  a  party  about  to  cross  the 
Plains  to  California.  He,  and  a  young  man  who  pro- 
posed making  the  trip  alone,  gladly  fell  in  with  us, 
and  we  all  started  together. 

As  we  traveled,  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  him.  He 
was  by  my  side  constantly,  and  I  learned  to  look  for 
him  eagerly  from  day  to  day,  until  at  last  I  could  not 
disguise  the  fact  that  I  loved  him.  It  amounted  to 
an  infatuation,  and  my  woman's  instincts  soon  taught 
me  that  he  was  as  deeply  in  love  as  I  was  myself. 
An  accident  united  us.  I  had  but  one  relative  living 
besides  my  father — that  was  a  sister  who  was  in  Cali- 
fornia, and  to  whom  we  were  going.  My  mother 
died  three  years  previous  to  our  journey.  One  day 
my  father  ventured  away  from  the  party  a  little  dis- 
tance,, and  in  an  unguarded  moment,  his  horse  took 
fright  and  stumbled  with  him,  over  a  rocky  ledge, 
killing  him  almost  instantly,  before  any  one  could  reach 
him  to  render  aid.  Oh,  that  was  an  awful  hour  for 
me!  We  buried  him  there  where  he  was  killed,  and 
left  him  amid  the  wild  rocks  in  the  wilderness.  1 
thought  I  should  die  too,  then.  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
leave  him,  my  dear,  good  father,  and  go  back  into  the 
world  alone.  In  my  wild  despair  and  anguish,  Guy 
Bartoni  whispered  his  love,  and  took  me  to  his  heart 
to  comfort  me.  When  a  little  farther  on  our  journey, 
we  fell  in  with  a  another  part^,  and  among  their  num- 


172 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


ber  was  a  minister.  It  required  little  persuasion  to 
induce  me  to  wed  him  there,  for  my  lonely,  sorrowing 
heart  deeply  felt  the  need  of  a  tender  friend.  So  in 
a  sweet,  secluded  spot  in  the  wilderness,  where  we 
camped  for  the  night,  we  were  married  by  moonlight, 
the  whole  company  standing  beneath  the  stars  in  the 
hush  of  the  night,  with  bared  heads,  listening  to  the 
solemn  vows  which  bound  us  to  each  other. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  night.  Its  solemnity  was 
almost  awful.  Still  it  was  beautiful,  and  I  was  as 
happy  as  I  could  bounder  such  sad  circumstances. 

"  We  all  reached  San  Francisco  together,  and  before 
doing  so,  the  minister  who  married  us  gave  me  this 
certificate  signed  by  himself  and  several  others,  as  you 
see. 

''I  was  not  happy  long,  however,  in  my  relation 
as  a  wife.  He  soon  wearied  of  me,  and  my  love  scarcely 
outlived  my  husband's.  It  had  nothing  to  keep  it 
alive.  Three  weeks  after  my  marriage,  the  scales  fell 
from  my  eyes,  and  the  broad  glare  of  a  thousand  imper- 
fections appalled  me.  He  possessed  none  of  those 
noble  attributes  which  have  power  to  bind  a  woman's 
heart  to  man  forever,  and  for  whicli  I  had  given  him 
credit  when  I  gave  him  my  heart..  Unkind,  unprinci- 
pled, cruel,  I  soon  hated  him  with  all  my  soul ;  I  could 
not  help  it.  He  repaid  the  sentiment  with  interest.  We 
parted  at  length,  he  going  his  way,  I  mine.  I  held 
that  certificate  as  a  check  i,ipon  his  actions.  I  would 
not  be  divorced.  I  resolved  that  he  should  not  wreck 
the  life  of  another  as  he  had  mine,  and  have  never 
ceased  to  watch  him,  though  he  has  nearly  eluded  me 
several  times.    My  means  were  limited.    I  have  been 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


173 


obliged  to  labor  hard,  sometimes,  to  sustain  life, 
which,  after  all,  is  uot  worth  sustaining.  It  might  bo 
diJfferent,  if  I  chose.  I  could  force  him  to  support  me, 
but  I  would  scorn  to  take  anything  from  a  man  I  so 
thoroughly  despise.    I  would  rather  starve." 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  story  she 
heard,  for  every  word  burned  itself  into  the  soul  of  the 
listener,  with  indestructible  force.  Yet  Madeline  asked 
half  mechanically: 

"x\nd  those  witnesses — the  minister — where  are 
they  now  ?" 

"The  minister  lives  in  California.  I  do  not  know 
where  the  others  are." 

''Does  Mr.  Bartoni — does  your — husband  know 
you  are  here  I" 

"Yes,  1  think  he  does.  I  have  warned  him  to 
beware  of  his  actions.  Oh,  I  so  feared  I  should  not 
get  to  see  you  before  the  matter  was  carried  to  extrem- 
ity— before  he  had  completed  the  terrible  farce,  and 
you  were  lost  forever.  I  have  agonized  over  the  thought 
until  I  was  almost  helpless." 

There  was  a  gray  pallor  creeping  over  the  thin 
features,  and  Madeline  observing  it,  rang  for  a  glass 
of  wine  lest  she  should  faint.  Young  as  she  was,  and 
selfish  as  youth  is  apt  to  be,  she  did  not  forget  what 
the  woman  before  her  had  suffered,  or  that  she  deserved 
all  the  pity  that  the  heart  can  give.  Deceived  in  her 
liusband,  deserted,  left  to  toil  and  poverty,  with  the 
bitter  consciousness  of  her  wrongs  in  her  soul,  how 
much  more  need  to  think  of  her  than  of  herself,  even 
though  her  heart  was  aching  over  the  death  of  its 
bright  hopes  !    With  all  the  depth  of  her  pure  nature, 


174 


ORAj   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


she  had  loved  him — looked  up  to  him  m  the  full  sweet 
confidence  of  her  womanhood,  and  saw  the  fair  image 
she  had  almost  worshipped,  crumble  to  worthless  dust 
at  her  feet.  Oh,  what  agony  for  woman,  in  her  trust- 
ing nature,  to  endure !  There  is  no  anguish  so  keen 
as  that  which  rends  the  heart  when  it  finds  its  idol 
unworthy  its  wild  idolatry — when  no  charity  or  gene- 
rosity can  avail  to  cover  the  hideousness  of  its  defects  ! 

But  strong  in  her  native  goodness,  Madeline  Clifton 
resolutely  stifled  the  moans  of  her  own  heart  to  com- 
fort another  whose  sufferings,  for  having  inflicted  the 
blow,  were  almost  as  intense  as  hers  in  receiving  it. 
Antoinette  clasped  the  little  hand  stretched  toward 
her,  and  as  she  pressed  her  white,  trembling  lips  upon 
it,  begged  wistfully : 

"  Do  not  despise  me,  dear  lady,  that  I  have  been 
instrumental  in  destroying  your  happiness.  I  know 
how  hard  it  is  for  you  to  bear.  God  knows  I  have 
reason  !  Oh  !  it  has  embittered  me  until  sometimes  I 
fancy  myself  inhuman  !  But  sympathy  softens  us.  I  ^ 
am  a  better  woman  than  I  was  before  I  came  to  you, 
even  though  it  was  to  give  you  pain  !  Tell  me,  that 
when  I  am  gone  from  you,  you  will  not  remember  me 
unkindly  for  what  I  have  made  you  suffer.  It  would 
have  been  more  unkind  in  me  to  leave  you  in  his 
hands  unwarned  of  your  danger  !" 

''Indeed  it  wonld,  and  believe  me, I  thank  you  from 
my  heart.  You  have  saved  mefrom'a  fate  too  terrible 
to  contemplate.    My  God,  how  awful!" 

She  had  scarcely  seemed  to  realize  before  the  fulness 
of  the  danger  from  which  she  had  escaped  through  the 
wretched  woman  who  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  stood 


ORA,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


175 


cowering  before  her.  Now  it  burst  upon  her  with 
overwhelming  force — stunning,  crushing  her,  and  sha 
fell  upon  her  knees  by  the  sofa,  shrinking,  quivering, 
shaken  to  the  soul  by  the  storm  that  swept  over  her. 

At  this  moment  Dr.  Clifton's  step  was  heard  in  the 
hall,  and  the  daughter  sprang  wildly  to  her  feet.  In 
another  moment  he  was  in  the  doorway,  and  she  had 
flung  herself  upon  his  bosom,  sobbing  frantically. 

''Oh,  papa,  papa!  Oh,  dear,  dear  papa,  my  heart 
will  break!"  was  all  that  she  could  articulate. 

''My  child!  Lina!  daugliter!  what  is  the  matter? 
what  has  happened  V'  cried  the  Doctor,  in  alarm,  look- 
ing down  at  the  clinging,  shaking  figure  in  his  aruis, 
and  then  at  the  woman  standing  in  the  midst  of  the 
room,  with  clasped  hands  and  convulsed  features.  lie 
had  never  before  seen  his  daughter  so  moved,  and  the 
thought  that  something  terrible  had  occurred,  half 
crazed  him,  as  he  continued  to  question  her  and  re- 
ceived only  sobs  and  broken  ejaculations  in  reply. 
Then  he  appealed  to  the  stranger  sternly : 

"Woman,  have  you  had  anything  to  do  with  this? 
Is  it  your  work  ?  Tell  me  instantly  if  you  know  any- 
thing about  it  ?" 

For  reply,  she  stepped  forward  and  placed  the  paper 
in  his  hand.  A  single  glance  showed  him  what  it 
was,  and  the  expression  that  swept  over  his  face,  for 
one  moment,  was  awful  to  behold.  Lina  felt  his  arm 
close  like  a  vice  around  her  person,  while  Guy  Bar- 
toni's  wife  saw  the  color  rise  in  a  crimson  torrent  to 
his  forehearl,  and  his  lips  grow  purple  with  rage.  His 
voice  was  thick  and  husky  as  his  fiery  glance  rested 
upon  her. 


176 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"And  you  can  prove  the  truth  of  this?"  he  asked. 
"Yes,  I  can.    Oh,  sir,  I  came  not  here  to  pain,  but 
to  save  her." 

He  set  his  teeth  hard,  and  fairly  hissed  tlie  word"* 
tliat  followed  her  deprecating  appeal. 

"  By  the  living  God,  he  shall  rue  the  day  he  was 
born — I  swear  it!" 

Lina's  sobs  were  stilled  with  fearful  rapidity,  and 
she  looked  up  in  terror  upon  her  father's  altered  face. 
In  all  her  life  she  had  not  seen  such  an  expression  upon 
it  as  it  now  wore,  or  heard  such  fearful  words  from  his 
lips.  She  was  now  as  white  as  marble  with  the  deadly 
fear  that  seized  her. 

"  Papa,  papa  !  you  look  terrible  !"  she  cried  in  dis- 
may.     Oh,  what  would  you  do?" 

"Never  mind,  child.    Time  will  show." 

His  calmness  was  more  terrifying  than  his  anger. 
He  took  a  step  toward  the  door,  but  Madeline  clung  to 
him  tightly. 

"  Papa,  dear  papa,  I  will  not  let  you  go  now.  You 
would  do  something  frightful,  I  know,  and  then  I 
should  die.    Do  be  calm,  dear  father!   Wait,  think." 

Her  tones  were  full  of  passionate  entreaty,  and  the 
outraged  father  wdieeled  upon  her  almost  savagely. 

''Madeline,  what  do  you  fear?  That  I  will  find 
that  man,  and  rid  him  of  the  life  that  is  a  curse  to  his 
kind  !  Can  it  be  that  you  can  still  feel  a  regard  for  a 
man  whose  object  was  to  destroy  you  ?  Look  at  that 
woman  there  !  She  is,  doubtless,  his  lawful  wife,  and 
he  would  reduce  you  to  a  more  miserable  condition 
than  hers,  for  you  cannot  be  lawfully  his  !  And  yet 
you  plead  for  him." 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


177- 


"  You  mistcike  me,  sir,"  replied  the  girl,  proudly 
"I  do  not  plead  for  him,  but  for  yourself.  Fou  are 
an  old  man,  father,  and  no  match  for  a  strong,  desperate 
being  like  Guy  Bartoni.  Should  you  meet  him  in 
your  blind  wrath,  there  is  no  telling  what  may  happen; 
and  if  harm  should  come  to  you  through  him — oh,  it 
w^ould  kill  me!  Think  of  my  little  sisters — pity  my 
anguish 5  father — for  surely  the  pain  of  such  deception  is 
bitter  enough  for  one  weak  woman  to  bear  !  Besides^ 
think  of  the  scandal  to  which  such  an  affair  would 
give  rise !  Your  daughter's  name  will  fill  every 
mouth — an  object  of  pity  to  some — food  for  idle  gos- 
sip for  others  !    Oh  !  I  could  not  bear  this  !" 

The  Doctor  stood  irresolute,  but  white  and  cold, 
until  the  end  of  the  appeal.  The  thought  of  being 
overmasteredby  any  man,  curled  his  lip  with  contempt 
when  she  warned  him ;  but  it  faded  away  when  she 
painted  the  closing  picture.  That  was  too  revolting 
to  contemplate.  His  child  a  by- word  for  the  rabble  ! 
God  forbid  !    The  thought  calmed  him  to  reason. 

'^You  may  be  right," he  answered  doubtfully,  ''but 
do  not  suppose  that  I  shall  let  this  matter  pass.  He 
shall  pay  dearly  for  his  villainy  !  If  I  am  an  old  man, 
I  am  a  father  too — an  outraged  father,  on  whose  best 
and  holiest  feelings  he  has  trampled  remorselessly, 
and  it  shall  not  pass  unpunished.  He  shall  pay 
dearly  for  his  rashness." 

Madeline's  form  was  rocking  slowly  to  and  fro  as 
the  angry  tirade  was  ended",  and  the  poor  old  man 
had  but  time  to  catch  the  sinking  figure  in  his  arms 
as  it  fell  to  the  floor.  Then  he  carried  her  to  a  sofa 
and  with  loving  anxiety  tried  to  restore  her  to  con- 


178 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


sciousness,  mingling  with  liis  endearments  and  self 
accusations,  bitter  denunciations  against  the  cause  of 
this  suffering. 

He  did  not  call  for  assistance.  He  could  not  bear 
that  others  should  look  upon  their  misery.  He  chafed 
the  little  hands  and  bathed  the  white  face  with  water 
he  found  upon  a  stand,  even  forgetful  of  the  woman 
who  had  been  the  unwilling  instrument  of  their  suffer- 
ings. And,  taking  advantage  of  the  opportunity  pre- 
sented by  his  forgetfulness,  Antoinette  Bartoni  stole 
softly  from  the  room  and  out  into  the  street,  now  lighted 
by  myriads  of  lamps  which  put  to  flight  the  darkness 
that  had  spread  over  the  city. 

She  was  weak  and  faint.  A  trembling  numbness 
slowly  crept  through  her  veins  as  she  turned  her  steps 
homeward.  Several  times  she  was  compelled  to  stop 
and  lean  against  a  lamp  post  for  support,  or  to  sit 
down  upon  the  white  marble  steps  of  some  splendid 
mansion,  until  she  could  gather  a  little  strength  to 
move  onward. 

She  had  risen  that  morning  with  a  nausea  which 
causjpd  her  to  loathe  food,  and  through  the  whole  day 
not  one  mouthful  had  passed  her  lips.  Anxiety  of 
mind,  followed  by  the  intense  excitement  of  the  past 
two  hours,  added  to  the  fact  of  her  abstinence  from 
food,  were  sufficient  to  shatter  stronger  nerves  than 
hers,  but  she  had  scarcely  given  it  a  thought  until  this 
moment,  when  her  trembling  limbs  refused  to  bear  her 
weight.  Now  she  reproached  herself  for  carelessness. 
She  felt  almost  as  if  she  should  die  !  It  would  not 
matter,  were  she  within  her  own  room,  sheltered  by 
the  miserable  walls,  which,  however  miserable  they 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


179 


might  bo,  still  served  to  screen  her  froia  the  cold 
world  and  its  pitiless  curiosity.  She  could  not  bear  to 
die  in  the  street  like  a  pauper — that  would  be  terrible. 
In  her  utmost  poverty,  she  had  never  lost  her  pride 
and  self  dependence,  but  had  struggled  bravely  for- 
ward through  difficulties,  even  as  she  had  striven  to 
move  onward,  now,  despite  her  weakness  and  increas- 
ing numbness. 

Presently  the  lamps  seemed  to  grow  numberless, 
and  the  stately  houses  on  each  side  of  the  street  en- 
larged to  twice  their  size  and  moved  like  a  huge 
panorama  before  her.  There  were  forms  passing  her 
that- looked  like  giants,  and  two,  larger  than  the  rest, 
came  meeting  her  with  locked  arms.  She  tried  to 
collect  her  strengtli  to  stand  out  of  their  pathway,  but 
in  the  effort,  reeled  and  fell  upon  the  pavement,  losing 
all  consciousness  with  the  fall. 

It  was  a  compassionate  face  that  bent  over  the  pros- 
trate form,  full  of  manly  pity  and  sympathy  ;  but  the 
mocking  laugh  from  his  companion  faded  the  divine 
light  from  it,  as  a  breath  of  poisonous  vapor  would 
steal  the  rich  hue  from  a  beautiful  flower.  Charles 
Lafarge  felt  almost  ashamed  of  the  momentary  feeling 
of  humanity  that  had  stirred  his  heart,  when  his 
heartless  companion  mocked  him  thus.  Yet  he  lifted 
the  head  from  which  the  little  hood  had  fallen,  and 
discovered  the  pale,  still  face  beneath  the  mass  of 
dark  hair  falling  over  the  shoulders.  A  cry  of  sur- 
prise broke  from  him. 

My  God,  Guy  !    It  is  Antoinette  !" 

"  The  deuce  it  is  !" 

All  apathy  was  gone  now,  and  a  fierce  gleam  lighted 


180 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


the  dark  ej^es  as  he  too  stooped  to  look  at  the  face,  as 
if  to  convince  himself  of  the  truth. 

You  are  right,  by  Jove  !"  he  exclaimed.  What 
the  devil  brought  her  here  ?  Ah,  can  she  have  been 
at  the  mischief  I  feared  already?  This  looks  bad! 
Run,  Charlie,  and  get  a  hack  at  once.  I  will  stay 
here !  Now  is  our  time  to  get  her  away.  She  may 
not  have  done  the  mischief  yet,  but  if  she  has — " 

The  sentence  was  left  unfinished,  but  the  demoniac 
expression  of  face  was  more  fearful  than  words  could 
have  been.  Charles  Lafarge  half  hesitated  and  shiv- 
ered, but  a  second  thought  caused  him  to  do  as  he  was 
bidden,  and  he  disappeared. 

A  little  crowd  was  soon  gathered  about  the  spot, 
and  eager  questions  were  showered  at  the  darkly 
watchful  guardian,  standing  sentinel  over  the  still 
insensible  form.  He  answered  with  curt,  stern 
brevity : 

Away,  all  of  you  !  What  is  it  to  you,  who  and 
what  she  is,  or  what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?"  She  is 
in  m?/care,  and  that  is  enough.  Ofi*,  and  leave  me  in 
peace." 

One  by  one  they  dispersed,  and  others  following, 
were  dismissed  in  a  like  manner.  Speculation  was 
rife  in  the  bosom  of  each.  It  was  curious  and  inter- 
esting to  see  a  handsome,  elegantly  dressed  gentleman 
standing  over  the  form  of  a  poor,  poverty  stricken 
creature  like  that,  and  claiming  her  as  his  charge. 
Perhaps  he  had  a  right,  and  his  pride,  stung  and 
wounded,  sharpened  his  tongue  to  strangers  who  wit- 
nessed his  humiliation.  An  unfortunate  sister,  or 
relative,  perhaps  !    Who  could  tell? 


•  ORA,    THE   LOST    WIFE.  181 

Aye!  who  could  tell?  How  little  would  any  one 
dream  of  the  relation  existing  between  that  proud, 
stern  man,  and  the  poor,  prostrate  woman  !  Wlio 
would  dream  that  it  was  his  wife  he  thus  stood  over, 
eager,  fierce,  watchfnl,  like  a  hungry  tiger  watching 
its  prey? 

In  a  short  time  he  was  relieved,  as  Charlie  sprang 
from  a  cab  that  drove  rapidly  to  the  spot,  and  assisted 
him  to  lift  her  within.  Then  the  two  entered  the 
vehicle,  and  bidding  the  driver  move  on,  fastened  the 
door  upon  their  unconscious  victim — now  fully  in  their 
power. 

Away !  past  those  elegant  structures  —  through 
teeming,  rattling  Broadway,  and  on,  up  one  street, 
down  another,  then  up  another,  till  it  would  have 
been  almost  impossible  to  follow  in  the  mad,  intricate 
drive,  out  into  the  darkness  and  obscurity  of  the  city, 
beyond  its  limit  of  culture,  and  warmth  and  beauty. 
Here  all  was  rank,  loathsome,  foetid  and  poisonous, 
wherein  swarmed  hundreds  of  human  beings  like 
vermin,  terrible  in  their  want  and  poverty.  But  it 
was  not  here  that  the  journey  was  to  end  !  Still  on, 
over  stones,  through  mud — over  a  dull,  ugly  road, 
until  the  dark  outlines  of  a  gloomy  structure  was 
faintly  traceable  against  the  sky  ;  surrounded  by  trees, 
and  seeming  to  frown  gloweringly  over  all  who  should 
come  beneath  its  shadow. 

Here  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  driver  dismount- 
ing from  his  box  opened  the  door  and  the  two  men 
emerged  from  it — one  looking  up  regretfully  at  the 
grim  walls— -the  other  heaving  a  sigh  of  relief,  while 
an  ejaculation  escaped  him. 


182 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"At  last!"  he  said.  "What  an  age  it  has  taken 
you  to  drive  this  distance,"  he  growled  at  the  driver. 

"  Sure  sir,  an'  I  came  fast  as  the  horses  could  carry 
us  at  all,  at  all.  They  ran  just  as  if,  fur  all  the  world, 
the  divil  hisself  wur  afther  thim.  Divil  the  minit  did 
they  iver  slacken  their  pace  to  bratlie  ;  but  fur  all  that, 
yer  honor's  not  satisfied  with  all  poor  Pat  or  the  bastes 
could  do." 

"Shut  up,  you  blunderhead  !"  commanded  Guy  in 
a  fierce  undertone.  "  Who  asked  you  for-  all  this 
tirade  ?  Go  and  ring  that  bell  there  by  the  little  door 
in  the  wing.  King  twice — once  quickly — then  wait 
while  you  count  six  and  ring  again." 

The  man  took  ofi*  his  hat  and  thrust  his  thick  fingers 
through  the  mass  of  matted  sandy  hair  over  his  flat 
forehead,  but  obeyed  the  order  as  well  as  he  could, 
stooping  down  to  make  his  way  under  a  mass  of  vines 
that  hung  over  a  frame  near  the  little  gate.  When  he 
had  succeeded  in  reaching  the  door,  he  got  hold  of 
the  bell  handle  and  gave  it  a  sharp  pull.  He  then 
waited  to  count  sixteen,  very  deliberately,  before  he 
pulled  it  again,  muttering  under  his  breath  : 

"  Sure,  an'  I'll  count  six  wid  a  vengeance— the  dirthy 
spalpeen  !  to  talk  to  a  poor  divil  in  that  way  afther 
the  divil's  drive  I  give  him.  Halloa  !  are  ye  comin', 
thar!" 

The  last  exclamation  was  drawn  from  him  in  a 
deeper  undertone,  as  a  step  sounded  within.  The  next 
moment,  a  bolt  was  drawn,  a  key  turned,  and  the 
door  being  slightly  opened,  a  grufi*  voice  demanded 
what  was  wanted. 

The  Irishman  was  saved  the  trouble  of  replying,  by 


ORA,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  183 


Bartoni  himself,  who  stepped  upon  the  stoop  at  tliis 
moment,  and  roughly  thrusting  the  man  aside,  whis- 
pered a  few  words  in  the  ear  of  the  doorkeeper. 

Without  another  word,  the  fellow  opened  the  portal 
ivider,  and  as  Guy  went  in,  he  bade  the  man  go  out- 
side and  w^ait  for  him. 

Ten  minutes  later,  while  Charles  Lafarge  was  pacing 
the  little  space  between  the  gate  and  the  carriage, 
Guy  came  out,  followed  by  three  men.  Thrusting  his 
arm  in  Charlies',  Bartoni  drew  him  to  the  other  side 
of  the  carriage,  and  the  men  opening  the  door,  took 
out  the  still  helpless  woman,  who  had  lain  all  this 
time  upon  the  cushions. 

She  might  recognize  us,"  whispered  Guy.  They 
have  their  orders,  and  know  what  to  do  with  her. 
Listen !" 

A  faint,  pitiful  cry  escaped  Antoinette's  lips  as  the 
two  men  lifted  and  carried  her  through  the  little  gate. 
The  third  man  waited  until  they  entered  the  door  and 
Guy  came  round  to  where  he  stood.  Then  nodding 
his  head  with  the  simple  word  ''To-morrow!"  he 
disappeared  within  the  building,  and  the  two  men 
re-entering  the  conveyance,  the  driver  turned  his 
horses'  heads  once  more  towards  the  city. 

Perched  upon  his  box,  the  man  ruminated  upon  the 
object  of  the  strange  proceedings  he  had  witnessed. 
He  was  not  bright  or  shrewd,  but  his  memory  served 
him  to  link  these  events  into  a  suspicious  chain  against 
the  men  inside  his  coach.  First,  Charles  Lafarge's 
excited  manner  as  he  called  him,  and  gave  him  the 
direction  he  was  to  drive — (information  which  had 
been  received  that  very  evening  during  a  conversation 


184 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


upon  what  was  to  be  done  in  case  the  woman  they 
sought  should  be  found),  followed  by  the  entrance  of 
the  stranger — the  long  drive,  the  mysterious  house  and 
its  mysterious'  inmates,  as  well  as  the  gentleman's 
surly  humor,  spoke  of  anything  but  a  just  or  pleasant 
transaction.  Patrick  O'JSTeal  carefully  stamped  each 
and  everything  he  had  seen  and  heard,  upon  his 
memory,  by  a  process  of  his  own  fashion,  and  mentally 
resolved  to  look  out  for  a  key  to  the  enigma,  if  only 
to  spite  the  ^'  spalpeen  for  bein'  so  hard  on  a  poor  divil 
as  did  the  best  he  could  for  him."  It  will  be  seen  that 
Patrick  was  sensitive  and  not  over  forgiving  in  his 
nature. 

Guy  and  Charles  Lafarge  got  out  of  the  cab  on 
Broadway,  near  Maiden  Lane,  and  paying  the  man 
liberally  for  his  time,  turned  away  and  were  soon  lost 
in  the  distance. 

For  several  moments  after  they  had  gone,  Patrick 
remained  standing  where  they  had  left  him,  clutching 
the  golden  coin  he  held,  tightly,  and  evidently  think- 
ing with  all  his  might.  A  vague  idea  of  something 
he  ought  to  do  seemed  struggling  in  his  mind  fo^ 
development,  but  ideas  had  to  labor  hard  within  his 
thick  skull,  ere  they  could  result  in  any  tangible  pur- 
pose, and  now,  after  deliberating  for  some  time  to  no 
account,  he  slowly  mounted  to  his  perch,  and  taking 
up  the  reins,  drove  away,  still  perplexed  and  uncertain. 

As  for  Bartoni  and  his  comrade  in  villainy,  after 
leaving  Maiden  Lane,  they  went  up  Broadway  some 
distance  before  either  ventured  to  speak.  Guy's  mind 
was  clouded  with  fears.  He  would  have  given  any- 
thing he  possessed  to  know  where  Antoinette  had 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


186 


been,  ere  falling  in  that  swoon  in  the  street.  Yet 
what  else  could  bring  her  to  that  portion  of  the  city, 
save  the  wish  to  do  him  harm.  He  had  every  reason 
to  suppose  that  she  had  heard  him  speak  Madeline 
Clifton's  name  the  day  she  thrust  the  little  card  into 
his  hand,  bearing  the  lines  which  warned  him  of  her 
presence.  It  would  be  no  hard  matter  to  find  out  her 
residence,  knowing  her  name,  and  his  prophetic,  fears 
told  him  that  she  had  betrayed  him  to  his  betrothed. 
In  that  case,  he  was  thwarted  in  everything  but  his 
vengeance  on  her.  That  would  be  proportionate  to 
:he  injury  she  had  done  him  ! 
Poor  Antoinette ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

What  changes  come  to  us  in  a  brief  space  of  time  ! 
A  day  may  serve  to  strip  us  of  all  we  hold  dearest  on 
earth,  an  hour  to  crush  all  the  fairest  hopes  of  life, 
leaving  us  heart  sick  and  desolate. 

Poor  Madeline  Clifton  wept  away  the  first  bitterness 
of  her  grief  in  the  loneliness  and  silence  of  her  own 
chamber.  Hers  was  too  true  and  loving  a  nature  not 
to  feel  deeply  a  woe  like  this.  She  would  have  staked 
her  life  on  her  lover's  truth  and  goodness,  yet  how 
bitterly  had  she  been  deceived.  But  for  the  incontro- 
vertible proof  she  had  received,  she  must  have  trusted 
and  loved  him  still.  But  that  little  strip  of  paper  in 
the  hands  of  the  miserable  woman  who  called  herself 
his  wife,  had  swept  away  her  faith  in  him  forever ; 

16 


186 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


and  with  her  trust,  her  love  must  die.  That  love  had 
received  a  terrible  blow,  and  with  a  fearful  cry  of 
agony  recoiled,  struggled,  wailed  and  died  forever  ! 
Nothing  but  the  dead  chill  ashes  were  left  on  the 
young  heart's  altar,  and  pride,  rising  with  slow  but 
gathering  firmness  and  power,  began  to  sweep  them 
away  with  a  sure  and  steady  hand. 

For  herself  the  bitterest  trial  was  over.  For  others 
the  pure  heart  bled  still.  When  she  gathered  hei 
strength,  and  with  a  patient  sweetness  almost  angelic 
came  down  to  breakfast  as  usual,  the  morning  after 
the  awful  revelation  which  had  blighted  her  life,  it 
was  for  the  sake  of  others,  that  they  might  not  feel 
too  deeply  the  blow,  by  witnessing  its  eflect  upon  her. 

The  Doctor's  usually  kind  face  was  stern  and  hard. 
He  could  not  forget.  The  lessons  he  had  impressed 
upon  the  minds  of  his  children,  and  which  his  daugh- 
ter was  practising  now — ''that  self  control  gives 
strength  to  combat  all  evil,"  seemed  entirely  to  liave 
faded  from  his  own  mind.  Through  the  whole  night 
sleep  had  not  visited  him,  and  the  cauldron  of  his 
wrath  boiled  hotly,  leaving  the  sad  impress  upon  face 
and  manner. 

Madeline  cast  her  eyes  around  the  circle  with  a  sick- 
ening sensation  at  heart.  Agnes  Montes  was  no 
longer  like  herself.  The  time  that  had  elapsed  since 
Mrs.  Meredith's  disappearance,  had  metamorphosed 
her.  She  seldom  spoke,  and  when  she  did,  her  tones 
had  the  bitter  acrimony  of  an  adult  whose  whole  life 
had  been  a  series  of  disappointments,  till  nature 
became  misanthropic.  The  darkly  beautiful  face  had 
grown  thin  and  sharp  in  its  outlines,  while  the  black 


ORA,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  187 


eyes,  burning  with  an  ever  litfiil  light,  looked  almost 
ghostly  in  their  size  and  expression. 

Kate's  joyous  laugh,  and  Mary's  innocent  prattle 
were  hushed,  and  with  pained  expressions  upon  their 
fair  young  faces,  their  glances  wandered  silently  to 
each  member  of  the  family,  returning  again  to  their 
plates,  misty  with  tears. 

But  it  was  when  she  looked  upon  the  brother,  of 
whom  she  bad  been  so  justly  proud,  that  the  gentle 
heart  received  the  keenest  stab,  and  the  brown  eyes 
grew  humid.  The  bleared  orbs,  pale  haggard  cheeks, 
sternly  compressed  lips,  and  general  untidy  appear- 
ance, told  a  tale  too  pitiful  for  even  love  to  mistake  ! 
To  what  misery  had  that  happy  circle  been  reduced, 
and  for  what  purpose?  The  soft  eyes  drooped,  and 
the  aching  heart  sent  up  a  prayer  unspoken  by  the 
pale  lips : 

"God,  hast  Thou  a  purpose  in  this  ?  Oh,  be  mer- 
ciful!" 

Harry  was  first  to  break  the  silence  that  reigned. 
His  tones  were  fretful  and  complaining. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what's  come  over  everybody 
in  this  house  !  I  have  not  heard  a  pleasant  word,  or 
J3een  a  smile,  and  I  begin  to  doubt  the  evidences  of 
my  own  senses  sometimes,  and  fancy  some  malicious 
sprite  or  fiend  has  transported  me  to  unknown  scenes 
and  new  associations.  This  is  no  longer  my  pleasant, 
happy  home,  but  a  funeral  shade  where  every  indica- 
tion of  joyous  life  must  be  suppressed.  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  all  ?" 

"You  will  know  soon  enough,"  was  the  grave, 
half  severe  response  from  the  father.    "  Meantime,  be 


188  ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


SG  gooa  as  to  keep  complaints  to  yourself,  for  at  this 
moment  they  are  particularly  unwelcome." 

Harry's  brow  flushed  angrily,  but  ho  made  no 
reply.  Universally  tender  and  kind  as  his  father  ever 
had  been,  he  was  aware  that  it  would  be  rather  a  dan- 
gerous experience  to  break  through  one  of  his  most 
rigid  rules,  which  was  that  no  unpleasant  circumstances 
should  ever  be  discussed  in  the  presence  of  the  younger 
members  of  his  family. 

"  Of  what  use,"  would  he  argue,  is  it, to  taint  the 
young  minds  of  little  children,  and  darken  their  lives 
with  evils  in  which  they  have  no  part?  Life  brings 
all  these  things  soon  enough,  and  experience  is  the 
best,  though  a  very  painful  teacher.  Keep  their  hearts 
disposed  to  charitable  impulses  while  you  can,  and  to 
do  this,  you  must  make  it  beautiful.  It  is  cruel  to 
turn  the  dark  side  of  a  picture  for  child  eyes  to  look 
upon,  when  there  is  a  bright  one  to  be  seen." 

And,  in  my  humble  judgment,  were  these  rea- 
;^onings  more  prevalent  in  the  minds  of  parents, 
children  would  grow  up  with  purer  hearts  and  minds, 
capable  of  greater  love  and  charity  for  a  world,  whiGh 
we  make  hard  and  cold  by  the  peoj)le  we  train  to  live 
in  it. 

When  the  meal  was  ended,  the  Doctor  rose  and  re- 
quested  his  son  to  follow  him  to  the  library.  Poor 
Madeline  trembled  in  anticipation  of  the  story  that 
would  there  meet  his  ear.  What  would  he  do?  He 
had  been  called  away  in  his  father's  place,  the  day 
previous,  to  visit  some  patients  at  some  distance,  and 
had  not  returned  until  late  in  the  night.  He  was 
therefore  ignorant  of  all  that  had  passed,  and  was  yet 


ORA,    THE   LOST    WIFE.  189 


to  learn  the  shame  of  the  black  deceit  practised  upon 
his  beloved  sister. 

With  a  fervent  prayer  in  her  heart  that  God  would 
guide  them  all  aright,  the  noble  girl  took  up  the  duties 
of  the  day  bravely  and  patiently. 

Calling  the  little  girls  together,  she  spoke  to  them 
with  forced,  but  loving  cheerfulness  in  her  tones. 

Don't  look  so  sad,  my  darlings.  There  is  no  need . 
I  see  your  dear  faces  clouded  because  ours  have  been  ; 
but  it  has  passed,  I  hope,  and  the  little  trouble  that 
worried  us  will  soon  be  over.  I  want  you  to  forget  it 
and  be  yourselves  again.  Katie,  you  may  finish  that 
drawing  for  my  bedroom  to-day,  dear,  and  Mary  can 
work  on  my  card  basket.  Put  your  fairest  colors  in 
it,  pet,  and  make  it  bright  and  pretty.  And  you, 
Aggie,  what  will  you  do  for  sister?" 

The  child  stole  to  her  side  closely  and  slipped  a  little 
burning  hand  in  Madeline's  soft  palm. 

"Love  you,"  she  answered  plaintively.  "It  is  all 
I  can  do,  I'm  afraid.    I  am  sick  and  tired." 

Another  sharp  pang  wrung  the  gentle  heart.  What 
next  was  coming  ?  What  power  was  at  work  here 
to  soften  this  child's  cold  and  bitter  tones  and 
haughtj^  manner  to  one  of  tenderness  and  love?  Was 
it  the  precursor  of  coming  evil  ?  So  unlike  her 
of  late,  and  now  with  these  burning  hands  and 
weary  tones  !  Terror  and  pain  struck  coldly  to  her 
heart. 

"Sick  and  tired,  my  love!  What  makes  you  so! 
How  are  you  sick  ?" 

Agnes  smiled  a  little,  but  after  a  moment  replied : 
"  I  don't  know.    I  have  felt  so  tired  for  a  long  time, 


190  ORA.    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


and  I  want  something — I  don't  know  what — till  I  feel 
sick.    Oh!  dear!" 

Come,  you  are  only  melancholy  because  we  have 
been  troubled.  Is  not  that  it?  You  will  feel  better  soon 
again.  Now  I  want  you  to  do  something  to-day,  and 
you  say  you  love  me,  so  I  know  you  will  do  it.  What 
shall  it  be  ?  Oh,  I  have  it  now !  1  promised  little 
Ellen  Parker  a  doll,  if  she  would  not  worry  her 
mamma  while  she  was  ill ;  and  as  she  was  very  good 
and  quiet,  she  must  have  it.  How  would  you  like  to 
go  out  and  buy  one  for  her,  darling?  Kate  and  Mary 
can  go  too,  and  when  you  come  back,  you  shall  dress 
her  with  some  pretty  pink  silk  I  will  give  you  for  the 
purpose,  and  little  Ellen  can  be  made  so  happy:  Don't 
you  think  you  would  like  it  ?" 

I  suppose  so,"  was  the  reply,  but  the  tones  were 
very  dreary.  Evidently  the  little  girl  had  no  heart 
for  the  proposed  employment. 

Still,  knowing  action  to  be  the  best  remedy  for 
sadness,  Madeline  resolved  to  engage  the  children  as 
pleasantly  as  possible,  to  make  them  forget  unpleasant 
things,  and  as  Kate  and  Mary  seemed  eager  for  going 
out,  she  went  up  stairs  to  see  them  prepared  for  the 
street,  and  soon  sent  them  away,  feeling  relieved  to 
have  done  this  much.  The  many  sights  upon  the 
sidewalk  would  prove  to  them  a  happy  diversion,  and 
something  of  that  nature  was  very  desirable  while  her 
home  thus  rested  under  a  cloud. 

Her  first  impulse  after  seeing  the  little  girls  off,  was 
to  hasten  to  the  library  to  her  father  and  brother,  but 
when  she  arrived  at  the  door  she  found  both  had  gone 
out.    Sick  with  dread  she  went  up  to  her  own  room 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


191 


and  fell  upon  her  knees.  There  the  great  sorrows  of 
her  young  life  found  vent  in  prayers  and  tears,  wrest- 
ling with  God  as  His  children  only  wrestle  with  Him 
when  in  agony  of  spirit.  Believing  His  promises, 
claiming  His  love,  we  who  follow  the  divine  teachings 
of  the  Savior,  will  not  give  up  the  struggle,  but  cling 
to  those  promises  for  relief  and  aid  until  our  agony  is 
soothed  with  the  whisperings  of  the  recording  Angel 
who  proclaims  our  sins  erased  from  the  Book  of  Life. 

But  notwithstanding  the  firm  reliance  placed  in 
protecting  power,  Madeline  was  only  human,  and 
weak  to  struggle  thus  unaided  with  her  destiny. 
Father,  brother,  all  seemed  absorbed,  and  there  was 
no  arm  on  which  to  lean,  except  God's,  in  her  sore 
distress.  She  was  strangely  placed  for  one  so  young. 
There  were  very  heavy  burdens  of  responsibility  upon 
her  young  shoulders,  and  now  in  her  misery,  when 
she  needed  a  sympathizing  friend  on  whom  she  might 
lean  and  seek  comfort,  she  was  compelled  to  fall 
back  upon  her  own  strength,  and  fight  the  battle  for 
victory  alone. 

Oh,  could  she  have  had,  but  for  one  hour,  a  mother's 
bosom  on  which  to  lay  her  weary  head  and  weep,  the 
heavy  load  would  grow  less  oppressive  !  Were  even 
her  father  or  brother  to  take  her  tenderly  in  their  arms 
and  speak  loving  encouragement  in  her  ears,  she 
would  feel  new  impulses  for  life  stirring  within  her 
bosom  !  But  they  had  left  her  to  herself,  and  gone 
without  a  word — and  for  what?  A  dozen  times  the 
question  returned  to  her  mind,  whence  she  strove  to 
banish  it ! — Had  they  gone  to  look  for  Guy  ?  If  so, 
what  would  happen  ?    She  dared  not  think  of  it.  She 


192  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


had  her  father's  promise  not  to  get  into  a  quarrel  with 
him,  but  Harry !  He  was  young,  strong  and  full  of 
passionate  life !  There  was  no  guaranty  for  his 
silence !  She  could  scarcely  wish  it,  for  with  all  her 
gentleness,  Madeline  was  proud,  and  felt  the  insult 
deeply  that  Guy  Bartoni  had  put  upon  her.  Yet  her 
love  for  her  dear  ones  was  strong,  in  her  woman's 
heart,  and  she  shrank  from  a  contest  with  danger  lest 
they  should  suffer. 

At  the  sound  of  her  father's  step  below,  Madeline 
hastened  down  stairs,  but  he  had  gone  out  again  and 
entered  his  carriage,  and  blaming  herself  for  her 
foolish  fears,  she  turned  back  to  her  room. 

I  am  afraid  that  some  of  the  young  housekeeper's 
duties  were  unattended ,  however,  that  day.  By  strong 
efforts  she  succeeded  in  busying  the  girls  with  their 
various  employments,  and  it  was  with  a  real  flash  of 
pleasure  that  she  saw  Aggie's  wan  face  lighted  with 
wakened  interest,  as  her  little  fingers  fashioned  the 
robe  the  devoted  sister  cut  and  fitted  for  the  doll  she 
had  bought.  But  after  that,  she  wandered  restlessly 
from  room  to  room,  striving  vainly  to  engage  herself 
in  something  to  make  her  forget  the  haunting  memo- 
ries that  arose  to  agitate  and  unstring  her  nerves. 

Once  she  went  into  Harry's  room.  It  was  in  sad 
disorder,  and  she  sighed  heavily  as  she  glanced  around 
the  pretty  chamber,  and  noted  evidences  of  his  grow- 
ing carelessness,  which  the  chambermaid's  duties 
scarcely  served  to  remove. 

His  books  and  papers  he  allowed  no  one  to  touch, 
but  himself,  and  these  were  scattered  profusely  over 
table  and  desk. 


ORA^   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


193 


A  little  broDze  hand  resting  upon  a  loose  sheet  of 
paper,  attracted  her  attention.  She  observed  that 
hasty  lines  were  scrawled  upon  it,  but  in  a  half  absent 
manner  took  it  up,  glancing  down  the  page  wearily. 
Suddenly  her  eyes  fixed  upon  words  that  sent  the  hot 
blood  coursing  in  a  wild  wave  to  her  heart.  What 
could  it  mean  !  Again  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  re-read 
the  whole,  then  with  a  low  cry,  she  sank  apon  the 
carpet,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

''This,  too!  this  too!  Oh,  God,  the  cap  is  bitter! 
I  am  but  human,  and  too  helpless  to  drink  it.  Let  it 
pass  from  me." 

These  were  the  burning  words  that  were  traced  upon 
the  paper  that  fell  from  her  grasp  and  fluttered  to  her 
feet : 

"  What  is  life  to  me  now  ?  It  might  have  been  very 
bright  and  beautiful,  but  I  myself  helped  to  destroy 
every  hope  I  reared  in  the  freshness  of  my  youth.  I 
have  driven  the  woman  I  loved  from  my  father's 
house,  as  though  she  were  the  guilty  thing  I  can  never 
believe  her  to  be.  Why  did  I  tell  her  of  my  love,  and 
that,  too,  in  the  hour  I  had  brought  her  face  to  face 
with  the  man  whom  I  feel  to  have  belied  her  ?  My 
God  !  I  shall  go  mad  !  A  wanderer  !  Perhaps  an 
outcast  from  very  want ;  and  it  is  I  who  have  driven 
her  hence  !  Why  did  I  not  keep  quiet  and  clear  her 
fame,  as  the  man  should  do  who  loves  a  woman  truly  ! 
Oh,  mad,  blind  fool  that  I  have  been.  Too  late,  too 
late !  She  would  hate  me  now,  even  had  she  been 
disposed  to  do  otherwise  before.  .  I  hate  myself!  It 
matters  little  what  becomes  of  me.  The  sooner  this 
miserable,  hateful,  and  useless  life  is  ended,  the  better 

17 


194 


ORA,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


for  me  and  all  that  love  me.  lam  beside  myself,  and 
reckless.  Shame  and  sorrow  must  come  of  it.  I 
would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

And  this  was  the  solution  of  the  enigma  which  had 
puzzled  her  for  so  long  ?  Oh,  where  was  her  woman's 
wit  that  she  had  not  before  se^n  it?  This  had  paled 
the  ruddy  cheek  and  dimmed  the  bright  dark  eye  ! 
This  had  driven  him  from  his  pure,  manly  habits, 
and  brought  him  into  evil  associations.  This  had 
stained  his  once  spotlessly  pure  name,  and  made  him, 
she  knew  but  too  well,  the  frequenter  of  places  where, 
in  early  youth,  his  foot  had  never  trodden  ! 

What  could  she  do  to  save  him?  He  must  be 
saved  !  She  could  not  bear  to  see  her  handsome, 
proud,  and  manly  brother  sink  from  his  height,  and 
fall  to  the  lowest  depths  of  reckless  misery.  That 
morning  she  had  observed,  for  the  first  time,  how 
rapidly  he  was  falling,  and  from  a  fate  so  cruelly  dark 
and  terrible,  she  seemed  powerless  to  rescue  him. 
Further  and  further,  each  step  she  took  forward, 
plunged  her  into  utter  misery.  If  life  had  become 
thus  wearisome,  here  was  a  double  inducement  to  call 
out  Guy  and  stand  a  chance  of  getting  rid  of  it.  To 
her  excited  fancy,  he  seemed  even  now  seeking  to 
madly  cast  that  life  aside,  in  his  blind  recklessness  ! 

Then  came  in  a  thought  of  Ora  !  Ah  !  poor  Ora  ! 
She  could  see  it  all  now !  What  had  she  not  suffered ! 
This  was  what  had  driven  her  hence,  and  not  a  sense 
of  guilt.  It  was  her  brother's  wild  infatuation  !  Guy 
Bartoni's  falsehood  !  Slowly  the  just  mind  of  the 
girl  labored  through  the  mists  and  clouds  of  difiicnlty, 
and  rested  upon  the  truth.    Did  she  believe  his  story 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


195 


now?  No.  With  her  love  all  faith  in  his  truth 
vanished.  Perhaps  Ora  knew  of  his  guilt  and  ho 
feared  her;  and  thus,  by  blasting  her  fame,  sought  to 
free  himself  by  turning  her  from  his  patfi.  Yet  if 
this  were  so,  why  did  she  not  defend  herself  by 
exposing  him?  The  question  rose  painfully  ;  but  the 
answer  was  found  in  a  remembrance  of  her  delicate 
position  and  extremely  sensitive  nature. 

Now  that  Bartoni's  villainy  had  become  apparent, 
and  Harry's  wild  confession  as  written  on  that  sheet 
of  paper  had  revealed  to  her  the  true  state  of  affairs, 
her  quick  mind  and  generous  heart  worked  link  after 
link  into  an  evidence  combatting  the  long  array  against 
her,  overwhelming  it,  and  at  last  Ora  Meredith  was 
justified. 

But  where  was  she  now?  Poor,  wronged,  heart- 
broken w^oman!  Madeline  sobbed  and  wrung  her 
hands  in  passionate  sorrow,  thinking  of  her,  and  how 
she  had  wronged  her  in  every  thought  before  this  little 
piece  of  paper  cleared  her  from  the  guilt  and  shame 
of  deception. 

Now  she  knelt  humbly  and  prayed  for  her  restora- 
tion to  them,  that  they  might  make  some  recompense 
for  the  many  wrongs,  cruel  and  bitter,  they  had 
unwittingly  heaped  upon  her. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


Ora  Meredith — turn  we  once  more  to  lier.  A  few 
short  days  had  brought  many  and  distressing  changes. 
Since  the  disappearance  of  the  stranger  in  whom  she 
had  found  a  kind  friend  and  assistant,  she  felt  as  if 
her  last  earthly  stay  and  prop  was  removed,  and  she 
must  stand  alone,  reliant  only  lipon  herself.  A  heavy, 
heavy  heart  she  carried  within  her  breast,  as  the  days 
waned,  and  her  strength  failed  her.  Through  the 
interested  kindness  of  Mrs.  Jenkins  she  had  succeeded 
in  obtaining  some  plain  work,  but  illness  and  trouble 
combined,  kept  eyes  blinded  and  fingers  unsteady, 
until  her  employer  grew  impatient  over  the  delay  of 
the  articles  that  were  to  have  been  returned  at  a 
certain  time,  and  when  it  was  carried  home,  she 
received  the  brusque  assurance  that  it  was  the  last  she 
could  have,  only  ^*  to  keep  and  spoil,"  and  then  Mrs. 
Jenkins,  seeing  no  fair  prospect  in  the  future,  after 
siezing  everything  available,  turned  the  wretched 
lodger  forcibly  into  the  street.  Stinging  and  insulting 
words  followed  her  from  the  coarse,  vile  tongue  of 
the  woman,  and  catching  her  child  to  her  bosom,  weary 
and  miserable,  she  wandered  away  amid  the  fury  of  a 
thunder  storm  that  was  raging  without.  Both  were 
soon  drenched  to  the  skin.  Both  weary  and  faint 
from  fasting.  Life  now  promised  little  but  utter 
misery  in  the  future.  Toil,  pain — poverty  in  its 
(196) 


/ 


OBA,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  197 

bitterest  form  to  battle  with,  and  its  attendant  evils  of  • 
scorn  misconstruction,  unfeeling  rudeness  and  want 
of  kindness.    How  could  she  hope  for  anything  better 
.vhen  she  had  struggled  vainly  for  so  long  agamst .  ? 
What  had  she  done,  that  life  should  be  turned  thus  to 
.all  and  bitterness  in  the  bloom  of  her  youth  and 
freshness  ?    Ah  !  the  heart  sickened  and  shuddered 
under  its  heavy  load  of  almost  insupi^ortable^  woe 
The  little  child  in  her  arms,  thin  and  pale,  and  pinched 
with  want-absolute  want,  must  now  lie  there,  per- 
haps and  die  of  starvation.    The  dreary,  hopeless 
future  lay  before  her.   Had  she  work,  her  strength 
was  too  far  spent  to  accomplish  it  without  first,  rest 
and  kind  care  to  restore  her.    Where  could  these  be 
found?    Nowhere  on  earth  that  she  knew,  iliere 
seemed  nothing  left  her  but  to  die. 

To  die'    Ah,  what  thoughts  rose  with  the  woid. 
Death  was  rest-peace  and  rest  eternal.  Unkindness 
could  not  penetrate  the  grave,  nor  scorn  s  ir  the  hear 
o  tumult  Lm  its  calm  repose.    Cold  and  want  could 
not  reach  beneath  the  sheltering  lolds  of  the  white 
winding  sheet,  and  there  seemed  a  blessed  sweetness 
in  the  thought  of  having  the  weary  limbs  hidden  away 
where  they  might  lie  at  rest  and  feel  no  more  the 
aching  and  pain  »  f  toilsome  days  and  mghts  Oh, 
could  she  and  Ada  lie  down  and  feel  the  cold,  firm 
fiugers  of  the  Angel  of  Best  surely  calming  the  liot 
pufses  of  life,  how  gladly-  would  she  ^-elcome  its 
coming.    She  was  longing  inexpressibly  for  it  ioo 
much  of  experience,  bitter  and  fearful   had  been 
crowded  into  her  short  life.    She  sickened  at  the  taste 
of  the  cruel  draught.    Must  she  drink  it  for  years  and 


198 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


years  to  come?  How  interminable  the  future  seemed. 
And  how  maliciously  Misery  paraded  a  grim  pano- 
rama before  her  mental  vision  ! 

She  saw  herself  dragging  wearily  through  the  years, 
her  child  growing  up  amid  coarse  and  uncongenial 
associations.  Her  fair,  loving  child,  with  her  danger- 
ous dower  of  almost  immortal  beauty,  and  her  sensi- 
tive nature — both  evils  from  which  even  the  rich  find 
it  hard  to  shield  the  possessor  from  their  attending 
dangers  and  pain.  What,  then,  would  it  be  for  her? 
Could  she  guard  and  shield  her  child  in  her  poverty  ? 
More  than  this,  she  saw  Want  stalk  grimly  by,  and 
leave  the  print  of  his  cruel  fingers  on  the  white  face 
of  that  little  child.  Half  of  her  life  m_ight  be  passed 
under  the  shadow  of  his  gaunt  form,  and  then  at  last 
she  might  see  that  grim  spectre  bear  her  away,  and 
she  powerless  to  stay  the  theft.  Oh,  God !  Oh, 
God  !    Take  us  from  the  evil  to  come  !" 

Slowly  her  steps  were  wandering  toward  the  river. 
She  did  not  know  it  until  she  stood  near  the  pier,  and 
saw  the  vessels  looming  up  in  the  gathering  gloom. 
Then  there  was  a  half-inviting  music  in  its  dash  and 
murmur,  as  the  boats  cut  through  the  waves,  and  the 
driving  rain  fell  upon  it.  She  could  fancy  herself 
quietly  at  rest  beneath,  with  the  bright  head  folded 
forever  upon  her  bosom,  in  an  embrace  death  could 
render  eternal. 

Her  heart  was  aching — her  brain  burning.  An 
eternal  relief  was  in  those  dark,  dashing  waters. 
Why  might  she  not  take  it  and  be  free — she  and  her 
poor,  suffering  babe?  She  longed  for  it,  she  yearned 
for  it  beyond  anything  on  earth,  now.     She  must 


OKA,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  199 

accept  it.    But  one  moment  of  davknees-pcrhaps  a 
3  ;ie_a  little  struggle -in  which  the  anas  o 
Ilh^r  and  child  would  clasp  each  other,  and  then  all 

^"^L'ewaTblissin  the  thought.    Instinctively  she 
cau<^ht  Ada  to  her  heart  and  took  several  steps  lorward 
tanding  upon  the  very  edge  of  the  pier.    Sorrow  had 
tment^d  ier  for  a  moment-w.u.t  aj.d         y  ^r.  ven 
her  mad     She  was  not  responsible  lor  the  influence 
n  tlughts  gained  over  her  in  that  ^our^^^ 
death  seem  so  blissfully  invitmg     It  ^^^^^^^^ 
love-everything  to  her,  and  she  souglit  it  wildlj 

'There  was  a  murmured  prayer  upon  her  lips  and 
an  ea^er  longing  look  of  love  in  the  blue  eyes  taking 
a  as  V  ew of  thechild  upon  her  bosom;  and  then  she 
b  n  her  bead  and  closed  her  eyes  in  anticpation  of 
S  derate  leap.  She  gathered  her  enei-gies  to  spmg 
b:;ond  reach  into  the  cool  dark  waves,  biit  a  ha.Kl  M 
rouo-hly  upon  her  shoulder,  and  a  hard,  hai.h,  }eu  not 
"nkfndvoiee,  dispelled  the  madness  that  wrapped  her 
brain  in  its  subtle  delirium. 

"  sure,  an'  is  it  agoin'  to  jump  into  the  wather,  ye 
Tr.  ,1'  woman  «    If  I  hadn't  got  ye  tins  blissed 
afther  dom  ,  woman  .  «  n'"Rorne's 

niinit  ye'd  a  ben  gone,  sure  as  Padunck  O  lie.  ne  s 
r  g^t'into  O'Flarty's  garden  and  eat  up  the  praties 
Whft's  the  matter  wid  ye!  Come,  tel  me  now  like 
TJJ  P-irl  an'  its  meself  that'll  help  ye  it  its  in 
me  power  to  do  anything  at  all,  at  all.  What  s  the 
matter 

Ora  sank  down  with  a  moan. 

.-No  home-not  even  a  shelter  in  this  storm-no 


200 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


bread — nothing  on  earth  but  death.  Oh,  wljy  wrest 
me  from  that.    Go  away,  and  let  me  die  !" 

"Die!  well  sure,  an'  I  shan't  do  it,  if  its  all  the 
same  till  ye's,"  was  the  decided  response.  What  if 
ye's  have  no  home,  nor  bread,  nor  anything.  Fortune 
is  mighty  cross  sometimes,  an'  sorrow  comes  to 
everybody.  Betsey  Miles  has  got  a  little  house  that'll 
do  for  shelter  in  the  rain,  an'  a  few  praties  in  the 
corner.  Ye's  shall  share  'em  till  ye's  can  get  some 
for  yerself.    Come  home  wid  me." 

A  light  stole  in  upon  the  mind  of  the  sufferer.  God 
created  all  life  for  a  purpose.  He  had  yet  use  for 
hers,  and  would  not  permit  her  to  destroy  it.  He 
had  sent  His  instrument  to  save  her.  There  was 
no  escape,  she  must  submit.  The  rebellion  that  was 
gathering  in  her  heart,  melted  under  the  influence  of 
the  better  thoughts  that  rose.  If  God  preserved  life 
thus  for  His  purposes.  He  would  provide  something  for 
its  comfort.  Shelter  and  food  already  was  offered  as 
an  earnest.  She  rose  humbly  and  followed  the  uncouth 
Irishwoman  who  stood  to  her  in  the  light  of  a  savior; 
and  there  was  repentence  and  shame  mingled  with  the 
])raYer  for  strength  and  mercy  she  feebly  uttered. 

Father,  Thou  seest  my  weakness,  and  Thou  alone 
art  the  source  of  strength.  Seeing  me  but  human, 
with  humanity's  bitterest  sufferings.  Thou  canst  for- 
give.   Oh  !  remember  me  in  mercy." 

Ere  long  she  became  conscious  of  having  entered 
a  small  room  with  a  fireplace,  where  a  little  bright 
fire  was  kindled,  throwing  out  cheerful  rays  of  light 
It  looked  inviting  and  homelike,  notwithstanding  the 
bare  floor  and  scant  furniture. 


r 


OR  A,   THE  LOST 


WIFE. 


201 


Before  she  was  aware  of  what  she  intended  to  do, 
Ora  found  herself  relieved,  by  her  hostess,  of  the  little 
girl,  and  her  own  weary  limbs  reposing  in  a  largo 
much  worn  cane  bottomed  chair.  Everything  looked 
clean  and  neat  around  her,  and  now  that  she  turned 
her  eyes  upon  the  woman  whose  busy  fingers  were 
divesting  Ada  of  her  wet  garments,  she  thought  the 
face  less  harsh  and  ill-favored,  and  the  dress,  though 
dripping  from  her  late  exposure  in  the  rain,  was  clean 
and  whole.  Sitting  before  the  few  blazing  boards  on 
the  hearth,  with  the  torpor  of  weariness,  pain  and 
want,  creeping  over  her,  she  still  wondered  how  it  was 
that  she  did  everything  so  swiftly  and  quietly.  There 
was  a  little  chest  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  from 
this  Betsey  took  several  articles  of  child's  clothing, 
from  which  she  selected  a  white  night  gown,  and 
laying  the  others  carefully  in  their  place  again,  put 
the  article  we  have  mentioned  upon  the  child,  whom 
she  had  already  bathed,  and  wiped  dry  with  a  clean 
soft  towel.  The  long  brown  curls,  straight  now  from 
being  wet,  had  been  wiped  also,  and  brushed  away 
from  the  little  thin  face ;  and  when  she  was  dressed 
in  the  night  robe,  the  mother  thought  she  looked 
terribly  pale  and  deathly.  Perhaps  it  was  the  gloom 
of  evening  and  the  gathering  mists  in  her  eyes,  but 
she  much  feared  it  was  neither,  that  caused  the  deathly 
wanness  apparent  upon  the  child's  features. 

While  she  looked  on  and  strove  to  think  steadily, 
Betsey  Miles  brought  from  a  closet  a  little  crib  which 
had  a  nice  clean  bed  and  pillows  in  it,  for  a  child  to 
rest  upon.  The  sheets  looked  snowy  white,  and  the 
pillows  very  soft.    Lifting  Ada  upon  them  she  care 


202 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


fully  tuciied  her  in,  and  without  a  word  left  her  and 
again  disappeared,  this  time  in  another  small  room 
leading  from  the  one  where  she  sat. 

When  she  came  back  she  had  a  cup  of  warm  milk 
and  bread  in  one  hand,  and  a  slice  of  bread  and 
butter  in  the  other.  One  she  handed  to  the  mother, 
while  with  a  spoon  she  gave  the  other  to  the  famishing 
child. 

Ora's  heart  swelled  and  her  eyes  grew  blind  when 
her  daughter  grasped  at  the  food  with  a  wild,  glad 
cry,  and  devom-ed  it  with  the  avidity  of  partial 
starvation.  But  in  a  little  while  she  sank  back  satis- 
fied. The  weak  stomach  refused  more,  and  with  a^ 
touching  weariness  in  the  bird -like  tones,  she  called 
to  her  mother: 

Let  Ada  pray  now, and  go  to  sleep." 

Ora  moved  forward  and  took  the  little  hands  in  her 
own,  while  repeating  in  choking  tones  the  ever  beauti- 
ful and  touching  prayer  which  had  been  almost  the 
first  that  was  taught  to  the  little  child,  for  whom  to 
sufier  death  it  would  be  nothing,  were  her  happiness 
secured  by  that  death — "  Our  Father."  For  her  there 
was  peculiar  sweetness  in  it,  and  she  thought  on  this 
night,  more  than  a  double  meaning.  She  never  felt 
it  as  she  did  now.  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but 
deliver  us  from  evil."  Had  not  He  preserved  her  from 
the  evil  of  self-destruction  in  the  hour  of  her  tempta- 
tion. Had  He  not  given  to  her  lips  and  those  of  her 
child,  the  daily  bread  that  preserved  the  life  He  had 
willed  to  save?  How  strangely  and  unexpectedly  had 
she  been  snatched  from  the  fate  she  sought.  Thoughts 
like  these  dwelt  in  her  mind  while  she  repeated  the 


ORA,   Tllli   LOST   WIFK.  '^03 

prayer,  and  Ada's  voice  chimed  in  uiurmunngly. 
When  she  had  done,  the  little  girl's  eyes  were  a  ready 
closed,  and  almost  in  the  same  moment  she  elept- 
beavily,  as  if  she  might  never  wake  more,  it  was.so 
profound.  She  was  weeping  silently  when  she  turned 
from  the  contemplation  of  the  touching  picture,  and 
attempted  to  swallow  the  food  Mrs.  Miles  had  g.veu 

^'a  wonderful  faculty  this  poor  woman  possessed. 
She  could  keep  her  tongue  still  while  feet  and  fingers 
were  busy,  and  accomplish  more  in  fifteen  mmut.s 
than  another  would  have  done  in  an  hour  when  the 
heart  had  been  more  in  the  gratification  ot  a  morbid 
curiosity,  than  the  relief  of  suffering.    She  had  paused 
reverently  during  that  brief  prayer,  but  at  its  close 
she  once  more  went  to-the  chest,  and  this  tune  it  was 
a  woman's  night  dress  she  brought  out.    That  che  t 
seemed  the  receptacle  general  of  all  imaginable  kmc 
of  things;  for  in  a  little  while  she  had  taken  various 
small  parcels  from  it  which  she  laid  upon  a  chair,  and 
at  last'  came  back  with  a  new  comb  and  brush  and 
without  waiting  to  ask  permission,  unloosed  the  hea^y 
•    bands  of  hair  wound  around  Ora's  aching  head,  and 
let  the  wet  mass  fall  over  her  shoulders  in  wild  protu- 


sion. 


Ora's  hair  was  both  an  incumbrance  and  a  glory 
Had  there  been  a  spark  of  vanity  in  her  composition,  it 
.nust  have  fixed  upon  this  native  wealth  which  a  1  n- 
cess  might  have  coveted.and  been  unable  with  all  her 
wealth  and  power  to  purchase.  .  ^  , 
When  she  stood  up  and  suffered  it  to  fall  around 
her,  it  descended  almost  to  her  feet,  veiling  her  form 


204  ORA,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


like  a  mantle.  Great  care  had  kept  it  soft  and  rich, 
while  tlie  bright  gloss  of  the  dark  brown  waves,  gave 
it  an  air  of  indescribable  beauty. 

Mrs.  Miles  could  not  suppress  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  and  delight,  as  the  heavy  rolls  fell  about 
Ora's  person,  and  she  endeavored  to  brush  it  out 
smoothly. 

Holy  Mother,  did  anybody  ever  see  sich  a  head  of 
hair?  Sure,  an'  if  ye's  was  as  poor  as  Job,  this  would 
be  a  fortune  to  yes  any  day.  There  aint  the  likes  of 
this  in  this  blessed  city." 

Betsey  was  naturally  handy,  and  very  gentle;  and 
Ora  sat  soothed  and  resting  under  her  kind  hands, 
while  she  performed  the  office  which  made  her  feel 
such  a  sense  of  grateful  relief. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour,  she  too  was  clad  in  a 
loose  dry  robe,  and  reposing  on  a  clean  bed  in  the 
little  back  room,  where,  after  tea,  Betsey  brought  the 
crib  and  placed  it  beside  her. 

The  tea  she  had  made  strong  and  fragrant,  which, 
with  the  thin  slice  of  toast  deliciously  browned  over 
the  few  glowing  coals  upon  the  hearth, made  the  poor 
wanderer  feel  like  another  being. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  Mrs.  Miles  had  got  all  her 
little  parcels  tied  up  and  again  stowed  away  in  the 
chest,  and  she  was  compelled  to  light  a  candle  to 
complete  the  task.  After  that  she  went  outside  the 
back  door,  and  Ora  could  hear  the  splashing  of  water, 
as  if  some  one  was  washing  clothes.  Listening  and 
thinking,'  she  became  convinced  that  her  own  and 
Ada's  garments  were  undergoing  a  purifying  process, 
and  it  was  not  long  ere  they  hung  smoking  upon  the 


ORA,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


205 


backs  of  three  or  four  chairs,  with  a  fire  biazlu*,' 
before  them,  kindled  by  the  woman  whose  resources 
seemed  like  magic,  springing  from  all  sorts  of  odd 
places.  Through  the  open  door,  Ora  had  seen  her 
raise  a  hoavi  in  the  floor,  and  from  beneath  draw  out 
the  wood  which  she  used.  An  iron  was  placed  beforo 
the  fire  to  get  hot,  and  a  blanket  folded  over  the  little 
table,  where,  after  the  clothes  had  dried  sufficiently, 
they  were  neatly  ironed  and  hung  again  over  chairs 
to  air. 

All  this  done,  Betsey  for  the  first  time  betrayed  a 
sign  of  curiosity.  Or,  perhaps,  we  should  say  inter- 
est, for  those  who  act  as  she  did,  are  seldom  moved 
by 'motives  of  curiosity  alone.  There  is  a  deeper 
foundation,  and  goodness  and  benevolence  are  the 
predominant  qualities  in  such  compositions. 

Bringing  a  chair  near  the  bed,  she  planted  it  close 
to  Ora''s  head,  and  asked,  in  a  voice  she  strove  to 

render  kind :  i  w 

"What  made  ye'swant  to  drownd  yerself,  to-aayi 

"  "Want  and  suffering !"  _  ^ 

"  How  came  ye's  to  be  in  sich  want  as  to  drive  ye's 
to  sich  a  sinful  deed  as  self-destruction  ?" 

"  God  alone  knows !  I  scarcely  comprehend,"  Ora 
replied  almost  vehemently.  "  I  worked  while  I  could 
When  I  grew  too  ill,  it  was  taken  from  me  because  I 
could  not  get  on  more  rapidly  with  it,  and  then  I  got 
in  debt,  and  being  unable  to  pay  board  or  rent,  was 
stripped  of  the  little  I  had  and  turned  out  of  doors. 
The  story  is  short,  but  comprehends  a  great  deal !" 

"Yes,  a  short  story,  but  no  little  one  for  all  that; 
and  no  new  one.    Hundreds  like  ye's  have  been  turned 


206 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


out  doors,  au'  some  of  'em  like  ye's  have  tried  to 
end  their  misery  in  the  dark  river.  B.ut  its  very 
foolish  an'  wicked.  I  saw  ye's  pass  here  as  if  ye's 
could  see  nothing  in  the  world,  but  what  ye's  was 
thinking  of,  an'  I  knowed  ye's  was  in  a  strange  way. 
I  throwed  a  old  shawl  over  my  head  and  followed 
ye's  as  fast  as  I  could,  to  see  what  ye's  wanted  to  do  at 
the  watlier.  I  thought  meby  ye  wanted  to  get- in,  but 
didn't  like  to  go  up  to  ye's  till  I  see  ye's  drop  yer  head 
an'  yer  lips  move  like  prayin'.  Thin  I  said  to  mysilf, 
'  now's  yer  time,  Betsey  Miles,'  so  up  I  goes  an'  got 
hold  of  ye's  jist  in  time  to  keep  ye's  from  jumpin'  in. 
What's  the  use  of  takin'  one's  own  life  that's  give  to 
us  to  do  good  wid?"  philosophized  the  queer  hostess, 
meditatively.  Dont  ye  know,  when  the  blissed 
Father  thinks  ye's  has  had  enough  of  this  world.  He'll 
take  you  from  it  Hisself  ?" 

"  I  believe  you,"  answered  Ora,  repentantly,  veiling 
her  tearful  eyes  with  her  thin,  slender  fingers.  "  I 
was  very  wrong  and  sinful,  but  human  strength  is 
very  frail.  I  did  not  think  it  kind  or  merciful  when 
you  came  between  me  and  death,  but  a  little  time  for 
thought,  and  your  great  kindness,  has  brought  me 
back  to  reason.  Oh,  how  can  I  thank  you?  You  are 
an  angel  of  goodness  !" 

Ora  stretched  out  both  delicate  little  hands,  and 
grasped  the  rough  hard  ones  of  her  lowly  friend. 
There  was  a  curious  mixture  of  feeling  stamped  upon 
the  features  of  the  woman.  She  appeared  to  appre- 
ciate Ora's  gratitude,  and  was  yet  unwilling  to  accept 
her  thanks  or  acknowledge  any  merit  in  the  service 
she  liad  done  her.    After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 


ORA,    THE   LOST    WIFE.  207 


managed  to  speak,  but  her  words  sounded  very  un^ 
gracious,  and  strangely  at  variance  with  the  expres- 
sion upon  her  face. 

''Go  long  wid  ye's,"  she  exclaimed.  ''Betsey 
Miles  a  angel  of  anything !  Angel !  a  Irish  angel ! 
Some  folks  gits  funny  notions,  an'  that's  no  lie !" 

In  spite  of  herself,  Ora  smiled.  The  stress  Betsey 
laid  upon  the  Irish"  sounded  too  ludicrous.  There 
was  surely  as  much  room  for  angelic  goodness  in  the 
composition  of  a  poor  Irish  woman,  as  any  other. 
Yet  Betsey  seemed  not  to  think  so,  or  was  very 
unwilling  to  acknowledge  it.  For  what  reason,  those 
who  knew  her  best,  might  have  told  better. 

Betsey  Miles  was  an  exception  to  her  class.  Igno- 
rant, uneducated  except  in  the  commonest  use  of  the  - 
English  language,  she  stood,  still  in  her  lowliness  and 
poverty,  above  her  class  in  native  intelligence  and 
strength  of  character.  Hers  had  been  a  painful  lot, 
and,  unlike  most  in  her  station,  she  had  become  a 
better  woman  from  the  taste  she  had  had  from  the  cup 
of  affliction.  Her  husband,  a  strong,  able-bodied,  easy 
natured  "man,  had  been  a  jobber,  and  in  an  unlucky 
moment,  during  which  he  endeavered  to  assist  in 
the  raising  of  stones  for  house  building,  a  pulley  had 
given  way,  and  the  unfortunate  wretch  was  crushed 
beneath  them.  This  had  been  a  very  heavy  blow,  for 
they  were  poor,  and  all  the  efforts  of  both  united,  had 
but  been  barely  suSBcient  to  keep  a  shelter  over  their 
heads,  and  provide  them  with  the  plainest  necessities 
of  life.  Now  she  had  funeral  expenses  to  pay,  and 
nothing  but  her  own  labor  to  bear  her  out  in  the 
difficulty. 


208  ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


But  there  was  another  trial  still  in  store  for  the 
poor  woman.  In  the  midst  of  her  grief  and  suffering, 
her  little  girl,  a  fair  child  of  three  years,  was  stricken 
down  and  died.  This  child  had  been  the  idol  of  her 
rough,  yet  loving  hearted  parents.  Frail,  tender,  and 
wondrously  beautiful,  it  seemed  almost  impossible  to 
stranger  eyes  to  recognize  in  her  the  offspring  of  such 
people  as  Billy  Miles  and  his  wife.  And  this  seemed 
to  please  the  parents  as  much  as  anything  else.  They 
loved  to  adorn  her  beauty,  and  every  spare  penny 
went  for  the  purpose.  Betsey  was  neat  and  tidy  in 
her  habits,  and  could  use  the  needle  deftly  as  a  profes- 
sional seamstress.  She  took  in  washing  for  families, 
and  often  when  these  articles  were  carried  home,  a 
present  of  some  old  garment  from  the  ladies,  would 
enrich  the  little  beauty's  wardrobe  with  a  new  article 
of  apparel,  neatly  cut  and  sewed  by  the  mother's 
hands,  while  her  clothes,  washed,  were  drying  for  the 
iron.  She  was  never  idle,  and  through  her  industry 
many  little  comforts  were  provided  for  the  baby  it 
might  never  have  known  otherwise.  There  were 
soft  white  night  robes  made  from  old  linen  ;  snowy 
little  sheets  and  pillow  cases,  for  the  hardly  earned 
crib,  which  became  Betsey's  chief  pride  when  it  had 
been  bought  and  furnished  ;  and  every  little  dainty 
that  could  be  obtained,  went  to  sustain  the  uncon- 
scious author  of  the  most  perfect  happiness  the  poor, 
lowly,  hard  laboring  parents  could  possibly  experience. 

Poor  Betsey's  heart  was  nearly  broken  under  the 
terrible  blow  of  her  child's  death.  But  it  quieted  and 
strengthened  her  most  wonderfully.  She  labored 
still,  and  kept  her  house  neat,  and  her  person  comforta« 


OR  A,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


209 


ble.  She  did  not  grow  bitter  and  cross,  and  repino 
vainly.  From  the  day  she  buried  the  little  Norah, 
she  turned  again  to  her  old  routine,  for  if  the  poor 
live,  they  have  little  time  for  idle  indulgence  of  grief. 
But  someway  she  always  seemed  to  lind  others  on 
whom  her  scant  means  were  expended,  even  as  she 
now  expended  them  upon  Ora  Meredith  and  her  child. 
It  may  appear  strange  that  one  like  her  should  seek 
to  be  charitable,  still,  it  is  no  less  true.  She  found 
many  opportunities  for  the  practice  of  her  benevolent 
purposes,  and  not  a  few,  in  her  simple  way,  had  been 
benefited. 

She  had  seen  Ora  pass  her  door  as  before  described, 
clasping  the  little  child  in  her  arms,  and  her  kind 
heart  thrilled  with  sympathetic  pity.  Perhaps  it^ 
was  the  strained  look  in  the  blue  eyes,  as  she  passed, 
or  the  sight  of  the  babe  on  her  bosom,  on  whom  the 
pitiless  rain  was  falling,  that  had  moved  her  so 
stroDgly.  Any  way,  she  had  followed  and  brought 
her  back.  Mother  and  child  were  warmly  clad  and 
supplied  with  food,  and  now  both  reposed  on  clean, 
Qoft  beds.  What  rich  man  or  woman  could  do  more 
than  had  she,  to  relieve  the  present  misery  of  the 
sufferer  ? 

Ora  lay  for  some  time  watching  the  face  of  her 
liostess,  and  thinking  of  what  she  had  done,  tracing 
out  in  the  deed  just  performed  the  innate  goodness" of 
a  nature  at  once  delicate  and  refined  through  sorrow. 
Gradually  she  questioned  her  with  interest  which 
grew  with  the  answers  she  received,  and  at  length 
gathered  from  her  the  particulars  we  have  touched 
upon  in  the  simple  history  of  Betsey  Miles. 

18 


210 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


How  her  heart  swelled  for  the  wife — the  mother-—* 
bereft  of  all !  What  a  chain  of  sympathy  was  woven 
between  them !  Here  was  a  woman  on  whom 
Poverty  had  laid  a  heavy  hand,  and  with  whom  she 
had  struggled  all  her  life.  A  woman  with  a  loving 
heart  and  noble  mind,  bereft  of  all  she  cherished, 
meekly  taking  np  the  burthen  of  her  life,  and  laboring 
still,  patiently  and  uncomplainingly,  and  spending  its 
fruits  upon  strangers!  For  the  time,  the  two  were 
upon  equal  grounds.  Ora  felt  the  simple  goodness  of 
the  woman  before  her,  above  her  own  advantages  of 
education  and  birth.  Both  were  poor — both  suffering. 
Why  should  she  recognize  a  difference  between  them? 
Reflection  humiliated  her  before  the  superior  qualities 
of  her  benefactress,  with  all  her  own  advantages,  she 
had  come  to  want  with  her  child,  w^iile  this  woman 
was  able  to  bestow  charity  upon  her  in  her  need! 

This  mode  of  reflection  was  becoming  very  painful, 
but  perhaps  it  was  the  best  she  could  have  fallen  into 
at  the  time,  and  lead  her  into  a  self  examination  that 
had  a  wholesome  efiect  upon  her  mind.  New  hopes, 
new  motives  and  resolves  sprang  up  faintly,  it  is  true, 
but  still  they  were  hopes  and  resolves  that  might  prove 
the  seeds  of  future  good. 

But  the  weary  mind  refused  at  last  to  dwell  longer 
upon  painful  themes,  and  in  utter  exhaustion,  Ora 
closed  her  tear  wet  eyes,  and  with  a  prayer  upon  her 
lips,  sank  to  sleep,  while  Betsy  Miles  sat  near,  intently 
gazing  into  the  pale,  sweet  face,  and  upon  the  little 
white  hand,  fair,  soft  and  dimpling  as  a  chikPs,  that 
lay  over  the  sheets. 

She  too  was  buried  in  reflection.    It  required  no 


ORA,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  2U 

effort  to  judge  of  the  difference  between  herself  and 
her  guest,  in  point  of  station.  The  delicate,  refined 
face,°and  sweet,  pure  language  would  have  betrayed 
Ora  a  lady  to  the  most  ignorant,  even  had  she  been 
drawn  from  a  gutter.  So  while  she  slept,  Betsey 
watched  and  conjectured  over  her.  What  had  reduced 
her  to  this?  She  turned  her.eyes  upon  the  sleeping 
child,  and  a  painful  shade  darkened  her  face  for  a 
time  and  she  sighed  heavily.  Perhaps  she  thought 
of  her  as  high  born  and  possessing  every  advantage, 
rashly  rushing  from  the  shelter  of  her  home,  upon 
the  cold  charities  of  a  cold  world,  while  no  arm  was 
stretched  forth  to  save  her.  Something  of  this  nature 
must  have  risen  in  her  mind  to  cause  the  shadow, 
but  it  softened  again,  and  there  was  only  yearning, 
loving  pity  in  the  misty  gray  eyes  that  regarded  the 
two  so  intently  as  the  hours  wore  on. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  SWEET  and  peaceful  haven  seemed  this  little 
tenement  to  Ora  when  the  morning  light  from  the 
eastern  window  falling  on  her  eyes,  wakened  her. 
Betsey  marched  with  quiet  footsteps  back  and  forth, 
busy  in  the  preparation  of  a  really  dainty  breakfast 
The  fragrance  of  coffee  and  frying  ham  sent  a  pleasant 
odor  into  the  room  — pleasant  because  she  was 
ravenously  hungry,  and  felt  now  as  if  anything  would 
be  palatable.  Looking  from  the  bed,  she  beheld  a 
plate  upon  the  hearth,  heaped  with  toast,  and  very 


212 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


tempting  in  its  rich  brown  color.  A  grateful  thrill 
quivered  through  her  frame,  and  an  earnest  petition, 
not  framed  in  words,  but  in  heart,  was  to  this  effect : 
"God  give  me  strength  to  repay  this  bounty.  Let  the 
bread  this  woman  gives  me,  be  as  bread  cast  upon 
the  waters.  Ah !  help  me,  that  I  may  repay  it  an 
hundred  fold.  I  thank  Thee,  my  God,  that  Thou 
hast  made  me  with  a  grateful  heart.  Oh,  keep  me 
so  forever,  while  it  is  Thy  will  that  life  continues. 
Show  me  the  way  that  I  should  walk,  and  even  though 
the  path  be  rough  and  thorny,  if  Thou  art  near  me,  I 
shall  not  faint  by  the  way." 

Slowly  the  shadow  seemed  to  rise.  The  silver 
lining  of  the  cloud  was  peeping  out  of  the  gloom, 
and  with  the  first  dawn  of  its  light,  her  heart  rose  in 
warm  thankfulness,  and  grasped  at  the  hope  rising 
slowly  before  her.  If  a  way  of  present  relief  had 
been  provided,  there  was  no  reason  to  despair  of  it 
in  future.  Faith  was  once  more  bending  the  light 
of  her  smile  upon  her,  and  her  strength  infused  new 
life  into  the  tried  soul  of  the  wanderer.  She  accepted 
unquestioningly.  The  proof  of  divine  interposition 
was  so  strong,  she  dared  not  doubt  or  question: 
Only  to  wait  and  hope,  and  to  arouse  herself  to  work, 

Ada,  still  sleeping,  stirred  upon  her  pillow,  and 
as  she  did  so,  revealed  the  face  before  concealed  by 
the  mass  of  falling  curls.  The  cheeks  were  flushed, 
and  the  respiration  heavy  and  irregular.  .  With  a 
vague  sense  of  fear,  Ora  rose  quickly  and  caught  the 
little  hands.  They  were  burning  ;  the  pulse  fluttering. 
The  mouth  was  parched  and  dry.  No  need  for  a 
second  examination  to  tell  the  painful  story.  The 


OEA,   THE    LOST    WIFE.  213 

child  was  ill!  The  conviction  fell  darkly  over  the 
mother's  soul.  The  cloud  but  this  moment  rising  to 
let  in  light  and  hope,  settled  back  with  still  heavier 
gloom,  and  the  cold  chill  of  blank  despair  blew  over 
her  heart,  like  the  chill  winds  upon  a  desert  waste 

A  half-smothered  moan  broke  from  her  lips,  as  the 
mother  fell  upon  her  knees  by  the  crib,  and  full  ot 
.wonder,  Betsey  came  to  her  side  to  see  the  cause  oi 
her  grief.  A  glance  at  her  face  a  few  moments 
before,  had  shown  her  calm,  almost  smiling  m  her 
new  born  hope  and  thankfulness.  She  had  not  seen 
her  rise,  and  now  felt  half  alarmed  at  this  sudden 
exhibition  of  feeling. 

"What's  the  throuble «"  she  asked  abruptly. 
"  Oh  Mrs.  Miles,  my  poor  baby  is  ill !    Feel  her 
hands-look  at  her  face  !    Oh !  it  is  hard !" 

Betsey  took  the  child's  hands,  and  her  coarse  face 
became  the  picture  of  fear  and  commiseration,  while 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  One  moment  she  stood 
mutely  by,  her  gaze  upon  mother  and  child  alter- 
nately How  her  own  heart  ached.  She  remembered 
the  sunny  face  of  the  little  Norah  lying  where  Ada's 
BOW  rested,  while  she  in  her  wild  grief,  knelt  where 
Mrs  Meredith  was  kneeling.  At  another  time  she 
mioht  have  tried  to  reassure  and  comfort  her,  m  her 
plain  way,  but  now  memory  was  too  strongly  upon 
her.    She  could  only  look  and  weep. 

«  Oh  Ada,  my  babe  !"  quivered  through  the  white 
lips  of  the  stricken  woman.  "  Surely,  I  am  doomed ! 
/  could  bear  to  suffer  anything,  but  you-all  that  i 
have  to  love-the  last  earthly  link,  oh,  it  is  too  bitter  I 
How  can  I  bear  this  affliction?" 


214 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  Don't,  don't !"  essayed  Betsey,  pityingly.  "May 
be  it  aint  so  bad,  afther  all." 

But  the  mother  knew  that  it  was  ''bad."  Ada's 
eyes  were  first  to  unclose,  in  the  morning,  when  well, 
and  her  voice  to  trill  in  its  birdlike  tones,  her  joy  in 
the  new  born  day.  Her  lithe  feet,  like  elastic, 
bounded  everywhere,  and,  full  of  lightness  and  life, 
woke  all  around  her  with  their  pattering.  Were  she 
not  very  ill,  she  would  not  be  lying  in  that  hot,  heavy 
slumber  at  such  an  hour. 

"Betsey,"  she  said,  speaking  familiarly,  as  to  an 
old  friend,  "  Ada  is  very  sick,  and  I  must  get  a 
doctor.  Where  can  I  find  one  ?  My  child  must  not 
die  without  an  efibrt  to  save  her.  Tell  me  where  to 
go  for  one  !" 

"  Sure  an'  I  don't  know  jist  where  ye'd  find  a 
docther  ye'd  be  afther  havin',  Ye's  might  get  the 
one  that  lives  jist  a  little  way  up  town,  Docther 
Wharton,  or  some  sich  name." 

"  Would  he  come  to  me,  Betsey,  if  he  knew  of  my 
utter  poverty  and  misery  ?  Suppose  he  should  think 
I  could  never  pay  him.    Would  he  come  ?" 

"  Divil  take  the  spalpeen  that  wouldn't !"  was  the 
rejoinder,  more  expressive  than  elegant.  "What 
man  wid  a  heart,  could  kape  hisself  away,  for  the 
matther  of  a  dollar  or  two  ?  Try  him,  that's  the  best 
way." 

Ora  resolved  to  act  upon  this  advice  at  once.  Her 
mother's  heart  but  too  surely  warned  her  of  the  danger 
of  delay.  Every  other  thought  and  feeling  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  one  great  fear  that  had  come 
upon  her.    Her  own  failing  strength,  and  the  atten 


ORA,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  215 

dant  horrors  of  her  partially  helpless  condition,  for 
the  time  were  forgotten. 

Dressing  as  hastily  as  her  tr enabling  linribs  would 
permit,  she  swallowed  a  cup  of  the  fragrant  collee 
Betsey  forced  upon  her,  and  hastened  away  in  quest 
of  a  physician.  Mrs.  Miles  had  given  her  directions 
how  to  find  Dr.  Wharton,  and  she  bent  her  steps 
toward  his  office  with  a  wildly  beating  heart. 

It  was  too  early  for  him  to  have  gone  out  on  his 
usual  roun^  of  visits.  Her  only  fear  was,  that  he  had 
not  yet  reached  the  place.  But  this  fear  decreased 
as  sheneared  the  building  that  rose  in  stately  splen- 
dor before  her,  and  saw  that  the  doctor's  sign  swung 
out  in  large  gold  letters  upon  a  black  ground,  fastened 
to  the  shutter  of  one  window  of  the  office.  The 
dwelling  part  of  the  house  began  to  show  signs  of  the 
life  stirring  within.  Her  hopes  rose  a  little,  but  her 
heart  throbbed  heavily,  and  her  breath  came  thick 
and  fast,  as  she  mounted  the  marble  steps  and  rang 
the  bell. 

A  sleek  negro  boy  answered  the^  summons,  and 
stood  insolently  surveying  her  from  head  to  foot  as 
he  demanded  in  no  polite  tone  what  she  "  wanted." 

"  I  want  to  see  Dr.  Wharton,"  she  answered  huskily. 
Let  me  see  him  quickly.    My  child  is  very  ill." 

Without  moving,  he  said  slowly— 
Dr.  Wharton  is  not  up  yet.  It  is  too  early  for 
ofiice  hours.  You  must  wait.  But  stay  ;  on  second 
thoughts,  you  need  not  come  to  him,  I  think,  for  he 
will  be*  too  busy.  You'd  better  go  to  some  other 
doctor.    I  don't  think  he  can  attend  your  child." 

The  tone  and  manner  of  the  black  were  too  mucl 


216  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


for  Ora  to  bear.  The  fair,  pale  cheeks  Jlushed  hotly 
and  her  eye  flashed  fire.  Every  nerve  was  quivering 
with  excitement.  But  her  voice  was  firm  to  sternness 
in  her  agonizing  intensity  of  feeling  when  she  spoke 
again. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  for  your  opinions.  I  want  the 
doctor,  and  demand  that  you  inform  him  of  the  fact 
instantly.    Go !" 

He  still  hesitated,  and  Ora  felt  her  blood  boiling 
with  overwrought  feeling,  when  a  cold,  measured 
voice  broke  upon  her  ear.  The  negro  started  as  if 
he  had  been  shot,  and  as  he  moved  aside,  her  eyes 
fell  upon  a  tall,  cadaverous  looking  man  just  behind 
the  boy,  whose  deep  set,  steel  cold  blue  eyes  regarded 
her  sharply. 

"  What  is  all  this  about  ?    What's  wanted  ?" 

The  question  was  addressed  to  Ora,  and  she  replied 
to  it  as  well  as  she  could  for  the  hot  tears  that  were 
springing  to  choke  her  utterance. 

"  Oh!  sir,  my  child  is  ill,  and  I  want  a  physician 
immediately.  The  man  here  told  me  that  the  doctor 
had  not  yet  risen,  but  surely  he  would  get  up  for  the 
sake  of  saving  a  life.  I  cannot,  cannot  bear  to  think 
of  losing  her.    Sir,  she  is  all  I  have  on  earth !" 

Her  tones  were  thrillingly  passionate.  She  could 
not  control  the  feelings  that  were  surging  in  her 
bosom,  but  they  might  as  well  have  been  cold  and 
meaningless,  for  they  made  no. impression  upon  the 
heart  of  her  hearer. 

"  What  did  this  boy  tell  you  besides  ?"  he  asked,  in 
the  same  measured  tones. 

"  That  I  need  not  wait — that  the  doctor  was  busy 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


217 


and  he  did  not  think  he  could  attend  my  baby.  Still, 
it  is  a  physician's  business  to  relieve  allwlio  apply  to 
him,  if  possible,  and  I  believe  if  I  could  see  him, 
he  would  surely  come  with  me." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"At  M—  Place." 

"There?  Whew!" 

The  tall  shoulders  were  lifted  with  a  shrug  of  dis- 
gust, while  the  white,  clammy  looking  lips  curled. 

"  Can  I  not  see  Dr.  Wharton  ?"  persisted  Ora,  with 
growing  agony, 

"Suppose  you  could  and  he  consented  to  go  with 
you.  Have  you  the  means  of  paying  for  medical 
attendance  for  your  child  !" 

"  Not  at  present.  I  have  but  a  shelter  which 
benevolence  has  afforded  me  ;  but  if  I  live,  no  one 
who  befriends  me  now  shall  ever  have  reason  to 
complain.    I  will  repay  every  debt,  God  helping  riie." 

How  was  it  in  human  power  to  stand  before  that 
noble  hearted  woman,  her  small  hands  clasped,  her 
bosom  heaving,  and  the  lofty  purposes  shadowing 
the  high,  white  brow — listening  to  her  eager  words 
and  sweet  faltering  tones,  and  still  remain  unmoved. 
Yet  no  font  did  it  reach  in  the  cold  heart  of  Dr. 
Wharton.  He  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  second 
time,  and  said  abruptly  : 

"  A  fine  story,  and  one  I  hear  every  day  from  your 
class.    I  can't  do  anything  for  you." 

With  the  last  words  he  closed  the  door  in  her  face, 
and  scarcely  realizing  the  evidence  of  her  own 
senses,  Ora  stood  for  a  moment  like  a  statue,  where 
he  had  left  her.    Then  she  turned  slowly  away, 

19 


218 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


bewildered  and  sick.  A  misty  film  gathered  over 
her  eyes,  and  her  limbs  felt  cold  and  heavy.  The 
blow  was  almost  like  death. 

How  she  reached  Mrs.  Miles's  house  again  she 
never  knew.  She  walked  without  any  conscious 
volition  ef  her  own,  and  instinctively  found  the  place 
where  her  treasure  rested. 

Poor  Ora  was  white  as  wax  as  she  entered — her 
lips  were  almost  livid  with  agony.  It  was  sometime 
ere  the  terrified  Betsey  could  gather  from  her  the 
story  of  the  repulse  she  had  met,  she  was  so  shocked 
and  bewildered  by  what  had  happened. 

But,  alas  !  to  poor  Betsey,  this  was  nothing  so  new 
or  startling.  Born  and  bred  in  poverty,  its  ills  were 
of  daily  occurrence,  and  she  had  become  too  much 
accustomed  to  them  to  feel  thus  keenly  one  blow. 
Her  cheerful  tones  somewhat  aroused  the  sufferer,  as 
she  bade  her  watch  with  the  child  until  she  made  an 
effort  herself  to  bring  the  help  she  had  failed  to 
secure.  As  she  donned  her  plain  bonnet  and  started 
forth,  Ora  caught  her  rough  hand,  covering  it  with 
tears  and  kisses. 

"  Oh,  Betsey,  bring  me  help  for  my  child,  save  her 
for  me,  and  I  will  be  your  slave !  Oh,  I  cannot  let 
her  die 

Betsey  hurried  out,  too  much  affected  to  speak, 
and  Ora  bent  over  the  crib  with  suc'.i  feelings  as 
those  alone  can  understand,  who,  like  her,  have  been 
bereft  of  everything  that  makes  life  dear  or  endura- 
ble. 

A  very  little  while  had  wrought  a  wonderful  change 
in  Ada.    Each  check  was  white  as  marble,  save 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


219 


where  a  bright  red  spot  burned  in  the  centre  ;  and 
the  blue  eyes,  rolled  upward,  seemed  fixed  in  their 
sockets.  The  little  mouth  was  half  open — the  lips 
fast  purpling,  while  the  fever  consumed  the  life  in 
the  frail  form.  Ora's  heart  seemed  breaking.  She 
could  not  think — she  could  not  pray  in  her  agony. 
She  felt  almost  as  if  she  was  going  mad. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  ere  Mrs.  Miles  returned, 
accompanied  by  a  middle-aged  man  who  entered — 
nodded  slightly  to  Ora,  looked  at  Ada  and  asked  a 
few  questions,  then  turning  upon  his  heel  prepared 
to  quit  the  place,  saying : 

"  No  use — too  late — can't  do  anything — better  as 
it  is,  anyway,  better  for  mother  and  child — hard 
world  this,  for  poor  people.    Good  morning." 

And  he  too  was  gone  without  leaving  one  gleam 
of  hope.  The  mother's  heart  was  too  heavily  bur- 
thened  to  bear  this  addition  to  her  bitter  cup.  With 
a  low  moan,  her  head  sank  upon  the  crib,  and  for  a 
time  all  earthly  sorrows  found  relief  in  oblivion. 

Kind  Betsey  Miles  found  her  hands  full  rather 
unexpectedly.  The  care  of  the  two  taxed  her  every 
energy — the  dying  child  and  the  unconscious  mother. 
Still,  she  never,  for  a  moment  shrank  from  the  task. 
She  thought  nothing  of  the  trouble  she  had  brought 
upon  herself — only  of  the  best  means  of  affording 
what  relief  she  might  to  the  stray  waifs  drifted  so 
strangely  in  upon  the  humble  hospitality  she  could 
afford  them. 

It  was  almost  dark  ere  Ora  arose  from  the  terrible 
blow  that  had  fallen  so  crushingly  upon  her,  and 
recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  render  any  aid  in 


220  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 

nursing  her  child.  But  hers  was  an  exceedingly 
unselfish  nature,  and  a  pang  of  remorse  shot  through 
her  heart  when  she  lifted  her  aching  eyes  to  Betsey's 
face,  and  saw  how  worn  and  tired  she  appeared. 
Between  the  mother  and  child,  Mrs.  Miles  had  had  a 
hard  day's  labor,  and  her  looks  betrayed  it  in  spite 
of  herself.  Now,  however,  the  mother  roused  herself 
resolutely,  and  took  her  place  beside  her  babe.  The 
bitterest  struggle  was  past,  and  as  hope  receded, 
despair  calmed  her.  She  knew  that  Death  was 
coming.  Already  the  light  of  life  was  fading  from 
the  blue  eyes,  and  the  signet  of  the  destroyer  was 
planting  its  impress  upon  the  baby  brow.  White 
roses  were  springing  in  the  cheeks  but  lately  flushed 
with  the  red  ones  of  fever,  and  the  mother  knew 
that  the  morning  light  would  find  her  childless. 

A  still,  but  bitter  pain  was  in  the  heart  of  the 
watcher  as  the  hours  went  by.  Despair  crushed  and 
calmed  her,  but  could  not  deaden  the  feeling  which 
stung  to  momentary  fits  of  partial  madness.  At 
times  she  wanted  to  fly  for  aid,  and  seek  still  to 
bring  back  life  to  the  beloved  form.  Love  clamored 
for  its  only  object  with  frantic  energy,  but  Hope 
held  no  alluring  light  before  the  dimmed  eyes  of  the 
sufierer. 

So  the  hours  rolled  on.  One  by  one  the  sands 
dropped  from  the  glass  of  life,  and  as  their  golden 
gleams  receded  to  the  shores  of  eternity,  the  cold, 
chilly  waves  of  Death  rolled  up  to  receive  the  tiny 
burthen  about  to  be  launched  upon  its  bosom.  And 
when  at  last  the  morning's  sun  rose  and  cast  a  flood 
of  glorious  beauty  over  earth  and  sky,  the  whito 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


22] 


fingers  of  the  mother  were  softly  folding  the  dark 
fringed  lids  over  tlie  beautiful  eyes,  and  settling  the 
little  waxen  limbs  in  their  last  repose. 

Very,  very  calm  was  the  look  of  the  deep  eyes 
and  the  expression  of  the  pale  face,  now.  Words 
were  mockeries  to  express  tlie  feelings  of  tlie 
bereaved  heart,  and  so  the  lips  were  mute  while  that 
heart  sent  up  wild  cries  of  agony,  unheard  except  by 
Him  who  seeth  and  heareth  all  things." 

Mrs.  Miles's  tears  dropped  silently  as  the  mother 
gently  but  lirmly  put  her  aside,  and  persisted  in 
herself  performing  the  last  sad  offices  for  tlie  dead. 
It  was  a  touching  sight  to  see  the  fair  young  face 
bending  over  the  little  sleeper,  while  with  gentle 
fingers  she  brushed  and  twined  the  bright  curls  over 
the  waxen  forehead  for  the  last  time.  Everything 
that  loving  care  could  do,  she  did  alone,  folding  the 
little  hands,  and  arranging  the  form  as  tenderly  as  if 
life  still  inhabited  the  tiny  casket,  and  needed  the 
tender  care  she  bestowed.  Think  of  it,  ye  mothers, 
who  in  your  wild  despair,  shut  yourselves  up  in 
darkened  rooms  to  weep  over  your  lost  ones,  while 
stranger  hands  compose  your  dead  for  the  tomb! 
None  were  there  to  lead  her  away  from  such  an  office, 
and  speak  to  her  gentle  words  of  comfort  in  her 
bereavement.  Alone  she  had  met  her  grief,  and 
alone  she  must  bear  out  the  triaL    Poor  mother ! 

Bat  now  arose  still  another  difficulty  to  surmount.  ^ 
Between  the  two,  protege  and  benefactress,  there  was 
not  a  dollar  to  pay  funeral  expenses.    What  could  be 
done  now?    To  whom  could  she  go  for  aid?  The 
child  must  have  decent  burial.    Yet  how  could  she 


222 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


obtain  the  means  ?  Oh,  it  is  a  hard  thing  to  JBnd 
one's  self  in  such  an  extremity  as  not  to  be  able  to 
claim  one  spot  of  earth  sufficient  to  lay  the  dead  ! 
How  bitterly  Ora  felt  this,  none  but  God  could  know! 
Yet  an  efibrt  must  be  made.  She  thought  of  Dr. 
Clifton,  but  recoiled  instantly.  She  could  not  bear 
to  go  to  him !  Pride  had  held  her  back,  even  when 
starvation  threatened  her,  and  she  could  not  go  to 
him  now!  Her  mind  groped  hopelessly  amid  the 
shadows  of  her  position  for  any  ray  of  light  by  which 
to  be  guided,  but  it  was  in  vain.  Turn  where  she 
would,  all  seemed  dark  and  inextricable.  At  last  she 
despairingly  appealed  to  Betsey 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Miles  what  can  I  do  V 

"  Sure,  an'  its  a  hard  case  inthirely,"  was  the  reply 
of  the  poor  woman,  whose  kind  heart  bled  over  Ora's 
troubles.  "  I  wish  it  was  in  me  power  to  help  ye's, 
but  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  the  way  mesilf. 
Och,  hone  !    The  saints  hilp  us  !" 

At  last  a  thought  occurred  to  her  which  she  grasped 
eagerly. 

"  I  will  go  to  some  clergyman  and  tell  him  of  my 
difficulty.  Perhaps  I  may  obtain  some  aid,  and  give 
my  child  a  decent  burial.  I  cannot  bear  that  she 
sliould  be  laid  in  a  pauper's  grave." 

With  a  sad  and  heavy  heart  she  started  forth  on 
lier  mournful  errand,  leaving  Betsey  to  watch  with 
the  dead.  It  was  sometime  ere  she  could  find  out 
where  to  bend  her  steps  in  search  of  a  minister's 
dwelling ;  and  when  she  did,  she  applied  at  three 
places  vainly  ;  the  gentlemen  were  either  out,  or  too 
much  engaged  to  see  any  one. 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


223 


At  length  she  mounted  the  steps  of  a  palatial  like 
mansion  in  the  most  aristocratic  part  of  the  town, 
and  with  trembling  lingers  touched  tlie  bell.  In  her 
hand  she  held  the  strip  of  paper  bearing  the  names 
of  the  persons  she  had  called  u])on,  and  the  numbers 
of  their  dwellings.  She  had  obtained  them  by  look- 
ing at  a  Directory,  and  this  was  the  last  on  the  list. 
If  she  failed  here,  where  should  she  go  ? 

While  she  stood  waiting,  the  door  opened,  and  a 
young  gentleman  came  out  hastily.  His  eye  searched 
her  with  one  hurried  glance,  and  then  he  was  about 
to  spring  down  the  steps  when  Ora  accosted  him 
timidly : 

"  Your  pardon,  sir,  but  will  you  see  if  Mr.  Ray- 
mond is  home  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  want  to  see  him?  Ah,  I  am  afraid 
you  cannot.  He  is  very  much  engaged.  Tell  me 
what  you  want.    I  may  help  you,  perhaps." 

''Thank  you,  but  I  prefer  speaking  to  him  if 
possible.  Could  you  not  obtain  an  interview  for 
me?" 

"  Is  it  of  great  importance  ?" 

"  Very,  sir,  to  me." 

"  Of  what  nature,  may  I  ask  ?" 
Excuse  me,  please,  but  I  would  rather  explain  to 
the  clergyman  himself." 

The  young  man's  eyes  were  on  her  face  in  a  full, 
searching  gaze,  but  the  look  was  kind  and  respectful, 
notwithstanding.  He  saw  that  in  her  which  seemed 
to  command  courtesy,  and  he  was  not  indisposed  to 
give  it.  lie  turned  at  once  without  further  questions, 
and  re-entered  the  house.     In  a  minute  he  came 


224 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


back,  and  begged  she  would  follow  him,  which  she 
did,  mounting  a  broad  staircase,  and  pausing  before 
a  wide  door. 

Without  knocking,  the  young  man  opened  the  door 
and  said : 

"  Here,  father,  is  the  lady  who  is  so  anxious  to  see 
you,"  and  turning  to  her  motioned  her  to  enter,  and 
bowing  respectfully,  closed  the  door  again  and 
retired. 

Ora's  heart  fluttered  painfully  as  she  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  a  tall,  dignified  looking  man  of 
fifty.  His  hair  was  white,  and  lent  to  his  face  some- 
thing of  a  benevolent  cast;  but  that  was  destroyed 
by  a  more  minute  survey  of  the  mouth,  whose  stern 
lines  were  now  stretched  to  portentous  length  as  his 
eyes  asked : 

Well,  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Sir,"  she  began,  but  the  words  choked  her,  and 
she  burst  into  tears,  sobbing  for  a  moment  violently. 

The  minister  neither  moved  nor  spoke,  but  stood 
waiting  patiently  for  the  explanation  of  her  business. 
This  coldness  Ora  felt  keenly,  and  it  served  more 
than  anything  else  could  to  calm  her.  Drying  her 
tears  resolutely,  she  steadied  her  voice  and  began 
again. 

"Sir,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  this  intrusion,  but 
circumstances  of  a  most  painful  nature  have  forced 
me  to  it.  Misfortune  has  followed  me  in  everything. 
I  have  lost  home,  friends,  and  the  means  even  of 
living.  I  am  alone  in  the  world  and  almost  an  utter 
stranger  in  this  city.  Last  night  death  severed  from 
me  the  last  kindred  tie,  and  now  all  I  had  to  love  oi 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


225 


comfort  me  is  gone.  I  am  in  a  bitter  extremity.  1 
have  not  a  spot  to  bury  her — my  little  cliild,  and  no 
means  of  obtaining  one.  I  came  to  you  for  assistance. 
Oh,  sir,  if  you  can  help  tog  to  give  my  little  girl  a 
decant  burial,  all  that  you  give  shall  be  amply  repaid 
if  my  life  is  spared." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  in  her  passionate 
appeal,  but  his  were  p'ertinaciously  studying  the  long 
rows  of  books  along  the  walls.  When  she  ceased, 
he  pursed  his  lips  slightly,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Hem!  humph!  sit  down !"  pointing  to  a  seat. 
"  A  sad  story,"  he  continued,  as  she  sank  half  fainting 
upon  the  chair.  "I  would  like  it  more  in  detail, 
before  I  promise  anything.  How  came  you  in  such 
a  forlorn  condition  ?  You  have  not  always  been 
poor  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  Until  the  few  past  years,  I  have  never 
known  the  necessity  of  labor.  But  misfortune  comes 
to  all.  I  was  an  orphan  when  I  married.  When  I 
lost  my  husband  I  lost  my  wealth  also,  and  had  no 
friends,  consequently,  to  go  to  for  aid.  I  have, 
therefore,  endeavored  to  work  my  way  upward 
amongst  strangers.  Tha  task  has  proved  a  very 
difficult  one— more  difficult  than  I  ever  imagined, 
and  I  have  failed.  I  stand  to-day  friendless  and 
helpless !" 
Bad,  bad !" 

He  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"  What  have  you  tried  doing  ?"  he  continued."  Ora 
flushed.  She  could  scarcely  bear  the  thought  of 
going  into  details,  but  her  love  of  truth  forced  her  to 
reply: 


226 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  At  first  I  tried  teacliing,  as  governess  in  a  gentle- 
man's  family." 

"  Where  was  that?" 
"  Here,  in  New  York. 
"Whose  was  it?" 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  cannot  tell  you.  There  are 
circumstances  connected  with  my  departure  that  you 
could  not  understand,  for  I  cannot  explain  them 
clearly  to  you,  and  which  would  render  an  attempt 
very  painful," 

"  Some  misdemeanor  of  yours,  I  suppose,  which 
you  fear  to  confess,"  he  remarked,  rather  severely. 

"  No  sir,  a  misunderstanding  through  an  enemy. 
I  can  say  truly,  I  was  guilty  of  no  wrong,  and 
discharged  my  duty  faithfully,  as  even  they  would 
testify.'' 

"  Humph  !    Well,  after  that  ?" 

"  After  that,  I  took  in  sewing,  but  my  health  failed, 
and  I  could  not  support  myself  on  the  little  I  could 
make  by  my  needle.  I  got  into  debt  gradually,  and 
after  everything  I  possessed  was  sold,  I  was  turned 
from  the  miserable  abode  I  had  occupied  for  some 
time.  I  knew  no  place  to  go,  and  was  too  ill  to  seek 
one.  My  child  and  I  were  exposed  to  the  pitiless 
storm  two  days  ago,  which  has  ended  her  sorrows, 
while  mine  are  increased.  A  poor  woman  saw  and 
took  me  in  for  the  night,  and  her  kindness  has  shel- 
tered us  since.  But  she  is  almost  as  helpless  as  1. 
What  to  do,  I  cannot  tell." 

Did  you  not  know  that  there  are  those  whose 
business  it  is  to  bury  the  poor?  Why  did  you  not 
go  to  them?" 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


227 


"Ob,  sir,  I  could  not  bear  that  my  child  should  bo 
buried  as  a  pauper.    Indeed  I  could  not." 

"And  why  not,  since  she  is  such  ?"  he  asked  coldly. 

For  a  moment  Ora  was  mute  with  agony.  Tlicn 
she  uttered  painfully : 

"I  know,  sir,  that  I  have  descended  to  the  very 
depths  of  poverty,  and  have  no  right  to  expect  more. 
But  still  I  cannot  bear  the  thoughts  of  this  last  bitter 
drop  in  my  bitter  cup.  I  cannot  crush  the  feeling  of 
pride  that  makes  the  idea  revolting." 

"It  is  your  duty  to  do  it,  however.  What  does  it 
matter  where  the  dead  body  is  laid,  or  by  whom,  or 
in  what  condition,  after  the  immortal  soul  has  taken 
its  flight  to  God  who  gave  it  ?  It  is  our  duty  to 
mortify  the  flesh,  and  purge  it  of  such  unholy  senti- 
ments as  you  have  just  expressed.  I  certainly  cannot 
encourage  such  feelings  in  you." 

Ora  covered  her  face  in  despair.  That  cold  voice 
had  no  pity  or  sympathy  in  it.  And  yet  this  man 
claimed  to  be  a  servant  of  God,  from  whom  we  are 
taught  to  expect  love  and  kindness,  as  His  chosen 
people.  What  wonder  if  for  a  moment  the  poor 
tried  heart  felt  all  the  bitterness  of  a  stirring  rebel- 
lion, not  against  her  God,  but  against  the  test  of 
endurance  put  upon  her.  What  had  she  done  to 
deserve  the  long  array  of  sorrow  that  had  come  upon 
her?  First,  the  loss  of  home  and  friends — then  toil 
among  strangers  —  contention  with  difficulty,  final 
disgrace,  poverty,  sickness,  death,  and  now  the  cold 
and  cruel  crushing  of  the  last  faint  hope  to  which  slie 
had  clung,  and  by  one  whose  hand  should  have  been 
stretched  out  inhumane  kindness  at  least,  if  no  more. 


228 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


WJiile  the  bitter  tide  of  feeling  surged  within  her^ 
the  minister  sat  still,  looking  severe  and  grave  aa 
though  he  had  been  led  by  a  strong  sense  of  duty  to 
reprove  wrong.  There  was  not  a  softening  line  in 
tlie  whole  cast  of  features,  and  as  she  looked  up  once 
again,  words  trembling  upon  her  lips  of  bitter  import, 
she  knew  how  vain  it  was  to  speak,  and  rose  hope- 
lessl3^ 

A  strong  impulse  held  her  back,  however,  when 
she  reached  the  door.  The  wish  which  burned  for 
utterance  on  her  lips,  could  not  be  withheld.  Tears 
were  dried  on  the  white  cheeks  now,  and  the  fire 
of  agony  and  resentment  blazed  in  the  large  eyes  as 
she  turned  them  full  on  his  face,  one  hand  resting  on 
the  handle  of  the  door,  and  the  whole  form  shaking 
from  head  to  foot  as  she  said : 

"God  forgive  you,  sir.  You  profess  to  be  His 
servant,  and  yet  this  day  you  have  been  guilty  of  an 
unchristian  and  cruel  action.  You  have  refused  me 
aid  when  you  are  surrounded  with  luxuries.  You 
have  denied  me  a  word  of  sympathy  which  would 
have  cost  you  nothing,  even  when  you  see  that  my 
heart  is  breaking.  I  am  alone,  helpless,  without 
friends,  without  means — anj^thing  that  would  give 
me  hope  or  strength  for  the  future,  and  when  I  tell 
you  my  condition  and  ask  only  the  harmless  gratifi- 
cation of  seeing  my  child — who  was  all  I  had, 
decently  buried,  you  turn  me  away  with  the  reproof 
due  to  sin,  and  tell  me  it  is  wrong  to  wish  such  a 
thing.  Oh!  if  tliis  is  your  religion — if  this  is  the 
religion  you  live  upon,  God  pity  you  when  you  come 
to  die  !" 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


229 


The  words  were  spoken,  and  she  turned  away 
relieved,  while  the  dumb  struck  minister  looked 
after  her  retreating  form  as  though  she  had  been 
some  wild  creation  which  suddenly  sprang  up  to 
confound  him,  and  then  to  vanish  from  sight.  Before 
lie  could  recall  his  scattered  wits,  she  was  gone  and 
the  servant  had  closed  the  door,  once  more  shutting 
her  cut  to  drift  helplessly  in  the  wide  world. 

The  strength  of  despair  alone  steadied  her  footsteps 
as  she  turned  her  face  once  more  toward  the  humble 
domicil  where  her  dead  rested.  She  paid  no  attention 
to  the  hundred  eyes  that  gazed  upon  her  as  she 
wended  her  way  through  busy  crowds.  She  thought 
of  nothing  but  her  helplessness — and  the  bitter  agony 
of  her  heart,  which  seemed  likely  to  break  with  its 
wearying  load.  And  yet  many  an  eye  was  turned 
upon  the  pale,  thin  face  as  she  passed,  with  the 
strange  look  in  the  blue  eyes  that  gazed  straight 
before  her,  and  the  purple,  compressed  lips  that  closed 
like  a  vice  upon  her  misery. 

Thus  she  pursued  her  way  from  amid  the  throngs 
to  the  more  humble  portion  of  the  city.  When 
within  a  short  distance  of  Mrs.  Miles's  abode  she 
paused  and  clasped  her  hands  together  in  a  gesture 
of  indescribable  anguish. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  broke  from  her  lips  in  passionate 
accents.  "  Must  I  submit  to  a  fate  so  cruel?  Oh  ! 
God,  what  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  punished 
thus  ?  Forgive  me,  if  I  rebel,  but  oh,  Thou  hast  tried 
me  hardly,  and  I  am  weak.  What  can  I  do  ?  Show 
me'  a  path  that  I  may  walk  out  of  the  darkness  into 
the  light !    God  be  merciful !" 


230 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


There  was  a  loose  pile  of  old  boards  heaped 
against  the  fence  near  where  she  stood,  and  she  sat 
down  upon  them,  dropping  her  face  in  her  hands. 
The  world  had  dealt  very  hardly  with  her,  and  do  not 
condemn  her  too  harshly,  dear  reader,  if  she  appears 
so  childishly  weak  and  helpless.  Who  could  pass 
through  such  a  series  of  affiction,  and  come  out 
strong  and  enduring  still,  ready  to  battle  on  with 
adversity  ? 

Here  began  a  struggle  between  heart  and  brain. 
Reason  strove  to  calm  the  tide  that  raged  within  her 
breast,  while  Love  and  Feeling  clamored  all  the 
more  wildly  for  the  restraint  Reason  endeavored  to 
put  upon  them. 

Reason  is  ever  without  sympathy'',  but  the  strength 
she  gives  is  invaluable.  And  now  her  subtle  sophistry 
would  make  itself  felt. 

"  Of  what  use  to  yield  thus  ?"  she  said,  wisely. 
"  God  never  created  a  being  without  the  power  of 
self-control.  God  is  just.  He  would  not  create  wants 
without  the  means  wherewith  to  supply  them,  nor 
sufferings  too  great  for  the  strength  to  bear.  He  tries 
for  purposes,  and  gives  strength  according  to  your 
needs.  Have  faith  and  rise  up.  Why  be  so  utterly 
cast  down  ?  What  have  you  done  with  the  teachings 
of  a  lifetime,  that  they  have  no  power  now  to  sustain 
you  ?  Has  experience  thrown  her  lessons  away  upon 
you?  That  which  you  are  now  suffering  you  have 
voluntarily  brought  upon  yourself.  You  left  a  home 
of  luxury  and  the  friends  who  idolized  you,  because 
one  only,  whom  you  trusted,  proved  unworthy.  Did 
you  come  out  into  the  world  expecting  to  find  a 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


231 


pathway  of  flowers ?  Had  you  done  so,  your  first 
lesson  must  have  shown  you  your  error.  Step  ])y 
step  you  have  struggled  through  thorns.  Will  you 
pause  now  in  the  midst  of  difficulty  and  make  no 
further  efforts  ;  or  will  you  rise  and  struggle  onward? 
There  is  still  the  power  within  you.  Only  energy 
grows  lazy  for  want  of  exercise.  Bring  it  forth  and 
use  it  for  good  purposes.  You  are  young — the  world 
calls  you  talented  and  accomplished.  God  has  fitted 
you  for  a  useful  life.  Are  you  going  to  waste  it  in 
useless  pining?  Rise  up  bravely,  meet  your  fate 
whatever  it  be,  and  move  onward." 

But  the  sore  heart  cried  out  ''What  can  I  do? 
Every  hope  seems  crushed.  All  that  life  holds  dear 
has  been  taken  away.  First,  the  idol  I  worshipped 
crumbles  to  dust  at  my  feet.  Then  comes  suflfering, 
toil,  disgrace,  poverty,  sickness  and  death.  Why 
must  life  be  so  laden  with  woe?  Energy  and  hope 
both  lie  crushed,  because  nothing  in  the  dark  future 
encourages  them  to  rise  from  the  mountain  weights 
that  bear  them  down.  They  cannot  throw  olf  the 
load,  for  there  is  no  purpose  in  the  attempt — no 
motive  in  the  future.  Life  is  dark  and  useless.  Let 
me  die  and  be  at  rest.'' 

"Away  with  such  selfishness,"  cried  Reason 
sternly.  "  Do  you  live  for  self  alone,  or  will  you  try 
to  forget  it,  and  devote  something  to  others  ?  God 
created  his  creatures  with  responsive  emotions. 
Forget  yourself  awhile,  and  try  to  lighten  the  woes 
of  some  who,  like  you,  have  wept  themselves  blind 
almost  with  helpless  sorrow.  Go  and  try  to  comfort 
them,  and  see  what  a  sense  of  peace  will  come  upon 


232 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


you  when  you  read  your  success  upon  their  happy 
faces." 

The  colloquy  was  ended  suddenly,  and  Ora  started 
as  a  hand  fell  lightly  upon  her  arm. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  same  manly  voice  she  had 
but  lately  heard  at  the  minister's.  "  I  fancied  you 
were  in  trouble,  and  I  have  followed  you.  I  did  not 
need  words  to  tell  me  that  your  mission  to  my  father 
was  fruitless.    What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

With  a  beating  heart  she  looked  up  into  his  face. 
It  was  generous  and  kipd,  and  sympathy  alone  marked 
its  expression.  She  felt  instinctive  trust  in  his  man- 
liness as  he  stood  up  before  her,  but  her  voice 
faltered  painfully  as  she  answered  : 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  !    For  what  did  you  seek  my  father  ?" 

"  Temporary  aid  in  a  sad  affliction.  My  child  is 
dead,  and  I  wanted  to  bury  her  decently.  I  thought 
lie  would  help  me,  but  he  will  not.  He  tells  me  that 
there  are  those  who  will  give  the  poor  a  pauper's 
burial — no  more.  Oh !  ifc  will  kill  me  !  I  could 
have  taken  charity,  even  from  him,  perhaps,  though 
I  meant  to  discharge  the  debt  that  it  might  not  be 
called  by  that  name.    From  you  I  cannot." 

"  And  why  not  from"  me  ?" 

"  Because — because — your  father  is  a  minister  of 
God,  whose  mission  it  is  to  comfort  and  to  relieve. 
He  is  an  old  white  haired  man.  It  seems  right  to 
look  to  him  for  help  when  in  distress  " 

"  And  he  turned  you  from  him !  —  but  why 
would  it  not  seem  the  same  if  I  aided  you  ?"  he 
persisted. 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


233 


She  did  not  answer,  and  he  continued  with  a  half 
smile. 

"  I  understand.  I  am  a  young  man,  and  you  do 
not  like  the  idea  of  obligation.  Strange  !  Even  in 
the  lowest  depths  of  misery,  custom  hath  still  its 
power,  and  conventionality  holds  tightly  upon  the 
reins  that  bind  society." 

His  last  words  were  rather  muttered  than  spoken, 
yet  Ora  caught  their  import,  and  blushed  painfully 
that  she  should  have  betrayed  her  feelings  so  plainly. 
After  a  moment  he  resumed : 

"  I  assure  you  that  my  sympathy  prompts  me 
unconditionally  to  offer  you  aid  in  your  distress.  But 
I  respect  your  feelings  and  would  spare  them.  If  I 
can  help  you,  say  the  word,  and  you  shall  have  what 
you  need.  I  offer  to  give  you  nothing  ;  only  to  loan 
you  that  which  necessity  requires.  You  can  more 
than  repay  me,  if  you  wilL" 

How— in  what  way  ?"  murmured  Ora,  faintly. 

He  paused  thoughtfully  one  moment,  then  said : 

"  I  have  a  friend  who  is  very  ill,  and  for  whom  1 
wish  a  kind  and  tender  nurse.  Come  and  take  care 
of  her  until  she  is  able  to  be  removed,  and  I  will  pay 
you  well  for  the  service." 

The  color  came  and  went  rapidly  in  Ora's  face, 
and  she  deliberated  for  a  little  while  almost  breath- 
lessly. Was  not  this  a  Providential  intervention,  and 
should  she  disregard  it?  The  man  was  an  utter 
stranger.  Whom  the  "  friend "  might  prove,  she 
might  surmise,  yet  she  had  no  right  to  surmise 
unflatteringly.  Her  feelings  were  of  a  conflicting 
nature,  and  he  saw  it. 

20 


234 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE- 


"  Madam,  I  perceive  you  hesitate,  and  1  tliink  I 
understand  the  cause.  But  let  nae  assure  you  that 
you  need  have  no  fear  of  committing  yourself  Only 
the  desire  to  aid  you  has  prompted  the  offer.  I  might 
get  others  whom  I  know  to  fill  the  place  I  offer  you, 
but  I  see  how  painfully  you  are  situated,  and  feeling 
your  worthiness,  I  am  willing  to  trust  you  blindly, 
though  I  never  saw  you  till  to-day.  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  acting  thus  upon  impulse.  But  a  part  of 
your  conversation  with  my  father  I  overheard,  and  I 
must  confess  it  angered  me  beyond  measure.  He  is 
my  father,  however,  and  it  does  not  become  his  son 
to  talk  of  his  heartless  cruelty.  Let  it  pass.  Will 
you  accept  assistance  on  the  terms  I  offer?" 

With  one  more  reassuring  glance  at  the  earnest, 
manly  face,  Ora  answered  gratefully. 

"  I  will,  and  thank  you  sincerely." 

"  What  is  your  address?"  he  asked. 

With  a  sadly  dreary  smile  she  turned  her  face 
towards  Mrs.  Miles's  humble  tenement,  and  pointed 
it  out  with  her  finger. 

"  There,  for  a  few  hours  I  have  found  shelter. 
There  you  can  find  me  when  you  want  me." 

Taking  a  memorandum  book  from  his  pocket,  he 
marked  it  down  and  replacing  it,  handed  her  a  small 
roll  of  notes. 

There  are  twenty  dollars.  I  will  send  a  man  to 
take  the  child's  measure,  and  in  the  meantime  have  a 
grave  prepared  in  —  Cemetery,  that  is,  if  you  would 
like  her  buried  there." 

"  I  could  not  ask  for  more,"  she  returned  subduedly 

Ob,  sir,  you  are  kind!" 


OKA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


235 


"Hush!  do  not  speak  of  it.  When  all  is  over,  I 
will  come  for  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand  kindly,  and  said  as  he  took 
leave : 

"Do  not  lose  your  faith  in  God!  because  some  of 
His  "  professing  "  children  err  blindly.  They  may 
have  rigid  notions,  and  mean  only  to  do  right.  God 
is  good  however,  and  it  is  to  Him  only  we  must  look, 
not  stopping  to  judge  by  the  examples  set  by  frail 
humanity." 

Tears  fell  fast  as  he  turned  away,  so  that  Ora 
scarcely  saw  his  retreating  form.  Her  heart  was  too 
full  for  words  of  utterance,  and  he  went  away  without 
hearing  her  thanks. 

Ah !  what  a  load  was  lifted  from  her  heart.  Her 
present  need  was  supplied,  and  in  this  lesson  her 
heart  took  fresh  hope  and  faith  for  the  future. 

With  an  earnestly  grateful  heart,  she  turned  back 
to  look  upon  her  dead  before  putting  her  from  sight 
forever. 


CHAPTEE  XXIL 

The  sun  shone  brightly,  and  many  a  rain  jewel 
flashed  from  overhanging  bough,  as  Ora  descended 
from  the  carriage  to  follow  her  lost  darling  into  the 
Cemetery.  There  were  no  other  mourners  to  stand 
beside  her  in  her  hour  of  affliction,  but  a  kind  hand 
assisted  her,  and  a  strong  arm  was  gravely  presented 
for  support  as  she  reeled  forward,  blinded  by  sufiering, 
toward  the  open  grave.  Betsey  Miles,  who  had 
refused  a  seat  in  the  carriage  beside  the  bereaved 
mother,  stood  a  little  way  from  the  grave,  tears  slowly 
coursing  down  her  kind  cheeks.  Beside  the  grave 
digger,  the  coach  driver,  and  the  gentleman  to  whose 
kindness  she  owed  everything,  she  was  alone.  Ah  ! 
how  keenly  she  felt  it !  Her  last  earthly  treasure  I 
and  she  was  putting  her  away  from  sight  with  not  a 
single  kindred  heart  to  shed  a  tear  over  the  remains  ! 

The  little  coffin  was  lowered  reverently,  and  the 
mother's  eyes  strained  a  last  look  down  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  tomb  ere  the  turf  was  heaped  upon  it. 
The  whole  world  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown 
dark!  How  could  she  live  without  the  sunny  smile 
and  prattle  of  her  darling  child  !  Would  she  never 
see  her  more  ?  Could  it  be  that  the  sweet  habj'-  lips 
had  for  the  last  time  lisped  her  name?  Would  the 
little  dimpled  arms  never  more  clasp  her  neck  in 
childish  affection?  Oh,  to  think  that  all  left  of  the 
(236) 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


237 


once  bright  being  she  had  fondly  called  her  own,  was 
enclosed  in  that  tiny  cofTin,  and  that  was  to  be  bnried 
from  sight !  She  could  not  bear  the  thought !  It  was 
like  madness!  A  kind  hand  held  her  back  as  she 
stooped  over  the  pit  and  stretched  her  hands  wildly 
towards  her  babe,  but  she  did  not  know  or  heed  it. 
With  the  first  spadeful  of  earth  that  rattled  down  upon 
her,  the  agony  of  her  heart  burst  forth  in  a  wail. 

"  Oh,  Ada  !  my  child,  my  precious  baby !  I  cannot 
give  you  up  !" 

With  the  cry,  her  form  rocked  and  swayed  like  a 
reed,  and  unconsciousness  brought  her  relief. 

"  Poor  thing,"  murmured  her  kind  hearted  protec- 
tor, compassionately.  God  has  been  merciful  to 
rob  her  for  a  time  at  least,  of  a  knowledge  of  her 
griefs." 

They  put  her  in  the  carriage,  tenderly,  and  seating 
himself,  Mr.  Raymond  took  her  head  upon  his  knees, 
bidding  the  driver  go  on  quickly.  A  kindly  nod  to 
Betsey  and  the  grave  digger,  and  he  was  gone,  leaving 
the  first,  sobbing  piteously  inside  the  Cemetery,  while 
the  other  coolly  performed  his  duty  without  apparent 
emotion.    He  was  used  to  such  scenes. 

The  carriage  containing  the  two,  rolled  on  rapidly. 
Mr.  Raymond  sat  still,  gravely  looking  upon  the  wan 
face  he  supported  wnth  deepening  interest.  He  did 
not  strive  to  revive  her.  Deeming  temporary  forget- 
fulness  a  mercy  to  the  sufierer,  he  would  not  seek  to 
break  it,  but  sat  gazing  quietly  and  thoughtfully  upon 
her. 

The  features  appeared  very  sharp  and  thin  now. 
Each  delicate  blue  vein  was  distinctly  traced  upon  the 


238 


ORA,   THK   LOST  WIFE. 


wax  white  surface  of  the  broad  brow,  and  the  long 
lashes  lay  upon  a  cheek  that  was  deathly  in  its  hue. 
What  suffering  was  written  upon  the  young  features  I 
The  mouth,  even  in  its  pale  repose,  showed  it  in  the 
weary  expression  that  nothing  could  efface.  The  little 
hands  showed  it  in  their  slenderness  and  transparency. 
A  heavy  sigh  escaped  him. 

"After  all,"  he  thought,  "  my  sympathy  for  this 
poor,  forlorn  creature  may  prove  a  bane.  What  do  I 
know  of  her  ?  She  seems  deserving  ;  I  could  stake 
my  best  hopes  upon  it.  Yet  it  is  strange- — so  refined 
and  lady-like,  and  yet  so  friendless.  It  looks  doubt- 
ful. Still,  /  should  not  harbor  suspicions  without 
proof.  The  innocent  suffer  far  more  than  the  guilty. 
Tes,  and  I  will  befriend  you,  poor  lonely  one,  come 
what  may,  until  I  know  you  unworthy." 

What  sublime  pity  was  on  the  manly  face  !  What 
earnest  benevolence  in  the  expressive  eyes !  Theodore 
Raymond  was  a  man  out  of  a  thousand.  Young, 
handsome,  intelligent,  possessing  a  deep  and  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  yet  charitable  and  gene- 
rous in  both  heart  and  action. 

When  consciousness  returned,  Ora  found  herself  in 
a  small,  but  comfortable  apartment,  with  Mr.  Raymond 
bending  over  her,  chafing  her  face  and  hands  with 
aromatic  vinegar.  As  soon  as  she  could  realize  her 
position  she  began  to  feel  deeply  embarrassed.  The 
blood  flowed  in  crimson  waves  to  hor  forehead,  and 
she  attempted  to  rise  from  the  couch  where  he  had 
laid  her.  He  gently  forced  her  back,  however,  and 
arranged  the  pillows  under  her  head. 

Lie  still,"  he  said,  with  some  firmness  and  a  little 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


239 


bIiow  of  authority.  ''Tou  are  too  weak  to  rise. 
Presently  you  will  feel  better,  then  I  will  leave  you." 

She  could  not  defy  his  command,  and  lay  still  as 
he  bade  her,  while  he  continued  to  bathe  her  temples. 
His  hands  felt  very  soft,  and  his  touch  was  skillful  as 
a  woman's.  Ora  wondered  how  a  young  man  like 
himself  could  have  learned  such  oflSces. 

"You  feel  better,  now?"  he  asked  gravely,  after 
awhile. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  much  better.  You  are  too  kind 
to  me." 

"  No,  I  am  not.  Did  not  duty  require  it,  interest 
would.  I  have  brought  you  where  your  services  will 
be  required,  as  I  have  told  you  before.  When  you  are 
better,  you  will  find  a  patient  who  may  need  you  day 
and  night.  I  do  not  intend  to  tax  you  too  heavily,  for 
you  are  very  far  from  strong.  For  a  while,  I  will 
myself  share  your  duties.  Till  you  grow  more  able 
to  perform  your  task,  I  will  take  the  night  watches, 
and  you  shall  rest.  Meantime,  a  faithful  servant  will 
supply  all  your  wants.  You  will  have  only  to  follow 
directions.  Now  go  to  sleep  if  you  can.  After  awhile 
I  will  send  you  some  tea.  You  will  not  see  your 
patient  till  to-morrow.  Keep  quiet  till  you  are  wanted. 
Good  afternoon." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  closed  the  shutters, 
excluding  the  light,  then  left  the  room  quietly. 

But  Ora  could  not  sleep.  Thought  was  too  busy 
with  the  changing  events  in  her  strange  life.  About 
six  o'clock,  a  servant  woman  brought  a  tray  into  the 
room  with  her  tea.  She  spoke  very  gently  to  her,  and 
seemed  anxious  to  make  her  comfortable.    After  she 


240 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


had  swallowed  a  few  mouthfuls,  she  dismissed  her,  and 
fell  once  more  into  reflections,  that  grew  more  and 
more  perplexing  and  painful,  as  she  continued  to 
think. 

How  strangely  things  seemed  turning  about.  She 
was  like  a  straw  upon  the  great  ocean,  drifting  whence 
the  winds  might  blow,  and  helpless  to  turn  any  way 
of  herself.  Again,  as  she  had  done  hundreds  of  times 
before,  she  retraced  all  of  her  past  life,  coming  back 
from  the  painful  past  to  the  dreary  present,  and  won- 
dering how  it  was  all  to  end. 

It  was  midnight  ere  the  aching  brain  found  rest  in 
natural  sleep. 

To  her  intense  surprise,  Ora  found  upon  waking 
the  following  morning,  a  change  of  apparel  spread  out 
upon  a  chair  by  the  bedside.  The  dress  was  of  black 
stuff,  rich  and  fine,  but  not  entirely  new.  There  was 
a  set  of  plain  linen  cuffs  and  a  collar,  with  soft  slippers 
and  new  white  stockings.  The  dress  did  not  fit  her 
exactly;  the  waist  was  a  little  too  short,  and  the  arms  , 
bound  her  slightly.  Still,  the  fit  was  not  so  bad  as  to 
be  noticeable,  and  when  she  arrayed  herself,  she  looked 
once  more  her  own  neat  personage.  Brushing  the 
heavy  bands  of  hair  away  from  her  forehead,  she 
rolled  the  shining  mass  in  a  heavy  coil  at  the  hack 
of  her  head,  and  then  sat  down  to  await  what  was  to 
come. 

She  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  In  half  an  houi 
from  the  time  she  rose,  a  light  tap  came  upon  her  door, 
and  Mr.  Raymond  came  in.  His  look  was  very  kind 
and  his  manner  pleasant  as  he  came  forward  and  bade 
her    good  morning"  in  his  quiet,  grave  way. 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


241 


"I  hope  you  fool  better,"  he  said. 
Better  than  I  have  felt  iu  a  long  time,"  she  replied, 
shall  be  quite  rested  soon." 
''I  trust  so.    Would  you  like  to  be  introduced  to 
yjur  patient?" 
''If  you  please." 
''Follow  me  then.    This  way." 
He  went  out  into  a  wide  hall,  and  continued  along 
it  for  a  short  space,  pausing  at  length  before  a  door 
on  the  opposite  side,  which  he  pushed  lightly  open, 
and  entered.    The  floor  was  richly  carpeted,  yielding 
no  echo  to  the  foot  that  pressed  upon  it.    The  windows 
were  heavily  draped  with  lace  and  damask,  and  nearly 
every  ray  of  light  excluded.    It  was  several  moments 
ere  her  eyes  became  suflSciently  accustomed  to  the 
gloom  to  distinguish  the  slight  form  resting  upon  the 
bed  in  one  corner.    Then  she  became  conscious  that  a 
pair  of  brilliant  eyes  regarded  her  intently. 

"Ellen,"  said  Mr.  Eaymond,  softly,  "here  is  your 
new  nurse.    She  will  be  very  kind  to  you  I  know." 

Ora  advanced  and  clasped  a  little  burning  hand. 
The  invalid's  cheeks  were  crimsoned  with  a  hectic 
flush,  and  her  eyes  wandering.  When  she  spoke,  it 
was  in  quick,  rapid  whispers. 

"How  good  you  are,  Theodore.    What  could  I  do 
without  you?    You  remember  everything.    Oh,  when 
shall  I  ever  be  able  to  repay  your  love  ?" 
j    '^Hush!  you  must  not  talk!    Now  I  am  going  to 
leave  you  with  Nurse  until  I  can  do  a  few  errands.  I 
will  be  back  before  the  doctor  comes  to  see  you.  Will 
yon  keep  quiet  like  a  dear  good  girl  till  I  return  ?" 
"You  wont  stay  long,  will  you,  Theodore?" 
21 


242 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


ISTo,  darling.    Only  a  little  while." 

''Well,  3^011  must  go  then.  But hasten  back.  I 
feel  as  if  I  slionUl  die  without  yoii.  All  others  have 
cast  me  off,  while  3^011  are  still  good  and  kind.  What 
wonder  if  I  cling  to  you  ?    Dear  Theodore  !" 

Both  little  hands  were  tightly  folded  over  his,  as  he 
stooped  to  kiss  her  tenderly.  When  he  turned  from 
the  bed,  Ora  saw  that  his  eyes  w^ere  humid  with 
unshed  tears. 

''Keep  her  quiet,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  be  here  again 
soon.  Do  not  talk,  or  let  her  talk,  if  you  can  help  it. 
Whatever  she  may  say,  however,  you  are  not  to  mind. 
She  is—" 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  laid  one  finger 
expressively  over  his  temple.  Ora's  heart  throbbed 
tumultuously.  "Poor  girl  !  she  is  more  afflicted  than 
I/'  she  thought.  "  I  at  least  have  reason  left  me,  if 
all  else  is.  gone." 

The  sick  girl  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  Ora 
sat  quietly  down  beside  her.  It  was  a  very  luxui'ious 
apartment  in  which  she  fonnd  herself,  and  everything 
seemed  to  indicate  wealth  and  comfort.  Yet  she  was 
at  a  loss  to  conjecture  the  relations  between  Mr.  Eay- 
mond  and  this  girl  for  whom  she  had  been  called  to 
render  her  services.  She  could  not  be  his  vvife.  She 
felt  rather  than  knew  that  she  did  not  hold  that  rela- 
tion. More,  she  knew  that  there  was  a  deep  mystery 
connected  with  the  two,  and  to  fathom  that  mystery 
she  had  no  right.  It  might  be  one  in  which  she  would 
find  cause  to  regret  connection,  could  it  be  unravelled. 
There  might  be  sin  and  shame  at  the  bottom,  and  she 
would  crnne  in  for  a  share  of  censure,  were  it  discov- 


ORA,    THE    LOST    W  I  F  K .  243 

ered.  Still  she  could  but  conjocfurc,  and  it  was 
unkind  and  ungenerous  to  let  those  coujeetures  run 
too  hastily  towards  harsh  conclusions.  Had  she 
never  suflered  from  misconstruction,  that  she  shouhl 
w^rong  others  upon  what  simply  appeared  strange? 
She  resolved  to  think  generously  of  those  with  whom 
she  thus  found  herself  unexpectedly  connected,  and 
leave  the  issue  to  the  future  and  the  Power  that 
ruled. 

The  patient  was  restless,  and  burning  with  fever. 
Ora  bathed  her  face  and  hands  repeatedly,  watching 
with  tender  pity  and  sympathy  over  the  sufferer  whose 
cries  sometimes  filled  the  room. 

At  last  Mr.  Raymond  came  back,  and  entered  the 
chamber  looking  flushed  and  heated.  He  had  been 
gone  three  hours.  Now  he  assumed  a  place  upon  the 
couch,  and  taking  the  girl's  hot  hand,  tried  to  soothe 
her.  His  voice  calmed  her  almost  immediately,  and 
she  sank  down  among  the  pillows  like  a  tired  child 
and  soon  fell  asleep. 

'^Go  to  your  room,  bathe  your  face,  get  some 
refreshment,  and  rest  an  hour,"  said  Mr.  Raymond, 
turning  to  Ora.    "I  will  watch  her.'' 

''But  I  do  ViOt  wish  to  leave  you.  You  are  tired, 
and  need  rest  yourself.  Let  me  stay  while  she  sleeps, 
and  you  take  the  rest  you  need  more  than  I." 

"  Go,"  he  answered  simply,  and  she  dared  not 
disobey.  His  voice  was  not  harsh  or  unkind,  but 
very  determined.  It  was  evident  that  his  w^ill  mi>st 
not  be  opposed  or.  questioned.  He  exacted  simple 
obedience,  without  hesitation.  That  rendered  him^ 
all  w^ould  go  smooth.    Ora  rightly   imagined,  how* 


244 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


ever,  that  with  all  his  gentleness  and  benevolence,  Mr. 
Kaymond  had  a  rough  phase  in  his  character  it  might 
be  dangerous  to  handle.  She  v^isely  resolved  to  be 
on  her  guard  and  do  as  she  was  bidden. 

A  few  minutes  later,  while  she  sat  in  her  own  room, 
she  heard  the  door  bell  ring.  Mr.  Raymond  came 
out  and  opened  it  himself,  letting  the  visitor  in  and 
,eading  him  toward  the  sick  chamber. 

''The  doctor,"  thought  Ora.    "I  wonder  if  he  is 
kind  and  skilful.    He  must  be,  though,  or  Mr.  Eay 
mond  would  not  have  him." 

Fifteen  minutes  passed  before  he  went  away.  The 
young  man  accompanied  him  to  the  door  and  then 
returned  quietly  as  before.  For  sometime  all  was 
still.  The  hour  passed,  and  then  Ora  went  back  to 
the  sick  room. 

''  You  have  not  slept,"  said  Mr.  Raymond,  as  she 
seated  herself  near  the  bed. 

''  No,  but  I  am  rested.  Will  not  you  retire  now?" 
Yes,  I  am  going  out  again,"  he  said  softly,  as  if 
fearful  of  disturbing  the  invalid's  slumber.  ''  I  shall 
trust  you  to  look  after  Ellen  till  half-past  ten  to-night. 
Then  I  will  relieve  you,  and  you  can  rest  till  eight 
to  morrow  morning.  Meantime,  you  are  to  give  these 
powders  in  the  blue  paper,  every  hour  ;  one  spoonful 
of  the  mixture  in  this  phial  every  two  hours.  You 
will  not  leave  her  a  moment.  The  girl  will  bring 
your  meals  at  the  proper  time,  which  you  can  eat  from 
that  table,  where  you  can  see  or  hear  every  action  or 
sound.  Keep  perfectly  quiet.  The  doctor  wishes  this 
sleep  to  continue  undisturbed  several  hours.  He  has 
given  her  a  strong  potion  for  that  purpose.    Does  it 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


245 


seem  too  long  to  wait  for  me  ?  Can  you  watch  bo 
long?" 

''Oh,  yes.    Do  not  think  of  me." 

"  Yon  understand  perfectly  all  you  are  to  do?" 

"  Perfectly.  The  powders  every  hour — the  mixture 
every  two  hours.  I  am  to  keep  very  quiet  and  not 
leave  her." 

Right.    You  are  as  precise  as  I  could  wish.  I 
trust  you.    Till  half- past  ten  good  bye." 
*'  Good  bye,  sir." 

He  went  out  softly.  Through  the  long  still  hours 
Ora  sat  patiently.  This  employment  was  no  tax  upon 
mind  or  energy.  Every  physical  want  was  supplied. 
She  did  not  have  to  rack  her  brain  in  devising  ways 
and  means,  and  the  quiet  of  the  darkened  chamber 
was  peculiarly  soothing  to  her  feelings.  It  was  what 
she  needed  most,  and  the  necessary  attention  given  to 
the  invalid,  served  in  a  measure  to  divert  her  thoughts 
from  personal  subjects. 

She  could  not  have  found  a  place  better  suited  to 
her  in  her  present  state.    It  was  a  haven  of  rest. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  WEEK  had  passed  away,  and  Ora  Meredith  knew 
no  more  of  her  patient  than  on  the  day  she  entered 
the  house.  The  fever  was  gone,  now,  and  she  lay 
pale  and  weak,  the  very  shadow  of  herself,  it  would 
seem,  she  was  so  wan  and  frail.  She  was,  withal,  a 
beautiful  being,  and  very. sweet  and  patient.  Ora  had 
learned  to  regard  her  with  a  steady  affection  for  her 
gentle  sweetness  after  reason  returned.  It  may  readily 
be  supposed  that  her  interest  increased  day  after  day. 
But  it  was  a  pain  to  rest  under  the  cloud  of  mystery 
enfolding  so  fair  a  creature.  It  was  not  curiosity 
alone  that  made  her  long  to  know  who  and  w^hat  she 
was,  and  how  she  had  been  placed  in  such  a  singular 
position  ;  but  an  earnest  wish  to  justify  her  in  her  own 
mind. 

In  all  this  time  no  living  soul  except  the  doctor  had 
entered  the  house.  The  one  servant  attended  all 
domestic  duties,  and  Mr.  Raymond  shared  the  vigils 
by  the  bedside  of  the  sufferer. 

Everything  was  strange  and  mysterious.  She  had 
never  even  seen  the  doctor.  Mr.  Raymond  always 
sent  her  to  her  own  room  at  the  hours  he  made  his 
visits,  and  remained  alone  with  him  until  he  took  his 
leave.  This  had  become  a  regular  routine.  The 
doctor  came  at  half-past  ten  night  and  morning.  At 
tl  ^se  hours  Mr.  Raymond  was  always  there.  At  nine 
(246) 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


247 


o'clock  in  the  evening,  he  invariably  dismissed  Ora 
to  her  room,  and  called  her  at  six,  requiring  her  to 
remain  in  the  sick  room  till  ten.  Then  she  had  an 
hour's  rest.  After  that  she  was  on  duty  again  till 
nine.  Mr.  Raymond  always  watched  through  the 
night  alone. 

On  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day,  the  sick  girl  was 
sleeping  soundly,  and  in  a  healthful,  natural  repose. 
Mr.  Raymond  had  come  in  and  looked  at  her  with 
glistening  eyes,  then  sat  down  and  drawing  a  paper 
from  his  pocket,  began  to  read. 

After  awhile,  he  threw  it  dovv^n  restlessly.  He  was 
doubtless  ill  at  ease.  Ora  thought  he  looked  much 
more  worn  and  haggard  thar^he  had  ever  seen  him. 
The  long  watching  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  his 
strength.  Tier  eyes  were  fixed  intently  upon  his  lace 
with  these  thoughts,  when  his  glance  encountered  hers. 
Ve  smiled  slightly,  and  she  felt  the  color  rising  to  her 
,neeks. 

"  Nurse,"  he  said,  ignoring  the  cause  of  her  confu- 
sion,   do  you  know  that  you  have  been  here  a  whole 
week,  and  never  told  me  your  name  ?" 
You  did  not  ask  me  !" 

"  True.  May  1  atone  for  my  carelessness  by  asking 
it  now^  ?" 

"  Yes.    My  name  is  Meredith." 
Was  the  little  girl  you  buried  your  only  child  ?" 

''Yes,  the  last  kindred  tie.  I  am  utterly  alone 
now." 

For  a  moment  he  dropped  his  brow  upon  his  hand, 
suflferiug  it  to  rest  there.  He  was  buried  deeply  in 
thought.    Then  he  lifted  his  head  and  said  abruptly: 


248 


QUA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


You  are  a  siiignlar  woman,  Mrs.  Merelith." 
She  started  in  surprise. 
''Why?" 

"You  are  unlike  others.  I  cannot  conceive  of  a 
single  being  who  could  come  here  as  you  have  done 
and  watch  faithfully  by  a  stranger,  and  never  ask  a 
single  question.  Yet  I  can  see  you  are  far  from 
indifferent.  You  have  a  good  deal  of  self-respect, 
and  would  like  to  know  with  whom  your  lot  has  been 
cast.  Is  it  not  so?  Why  don't  you  ask  me  ques- 
tions ?" 

"I  do  not  feel  at  liberty." 

''Why  not?" 

"  If  you  wish  me  to^now  anything  about  yourself 
and  this  lady,  you  will  tell  me  of  your  own  free  will." 

"  You  have  both  patience  and  discretion.  I  suppose 
while  you  practice  this  rule,  you  wish  others  to  observe 
the  same  toward  you  ?" 

"  Most  certainly." 

"So  I  supposed.  But  if  I  were  less  thoughtful 
and  generous  than  yourself,  and  asked  you  questions?" 

"  I  should  beg  you  to  excuse  my  answering  them." 

"Ah!  you  would  not  tell  me  about  yourself! 
Suppose  I  demanded  it,  having  placed  one  of  the 
dearest  charges  the  earth  contains  in  your  hands?" 

"  You  would  scarcely  find  such  a  course  necessary 
now.  I  should  have  granted  you  the  right  to  ask  me 
anything  you  chose,  in  the  beginning,  and  left  you  to 
decide  upon  en  ploying  me  or  not,  according  to  the 
opinion  you  formed*bf  me.  But  you  took  me  blindly, 
and  have  so  far  seemed  satisfied  with  my  efibrts." 

''True     You  are  the  quintessence  .  of  obedience. 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


249 


But  while  you  have  watched  and  glided  about  so  sol'tly 
in  tliis  sick  room,  I  have  grown  interested.  Come, 
ask  me  some  questions.  Let  me  tell  you  something, 
so  that  I  may  have  a  fair  right  to  some  of  your  confi- 
dence.   I  will  be  fair  with  you.  Begin." 

"  1  have  no  questions  to  ask." 

"And  you  do  not  wish  to  be  asked  any?" 

"No." 

"  Frank  and  square.  But  I  am  not  satisfied.  Do 
you  have  no  desire  to  know  who  that  poor  child  lying 
there,  is,  in  whom  I  have  taken  such  interest  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  strong  desire." 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  ask  me  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  would  tell  me  when  you  wished  me 
to  know." 

"  Have  you  not  mistrusted  sometimes,  that  there 
might  be  an  unpleasant  mystery  connected  with 
us  ?" 

"  I  confess  I  have  had  some  misgivings.  But  I  have 
no  right  to  judge  unknown  actions,  or  evils  that  may 
not  exist.  I  only  seek  to  serve  you.  God  must  judge 
if  you  are  right  or  wrong." 

He  sighed  heavily.  "He  will  judge  me,"  he 
murmured,  "  and  He  will  judge  others  bitterly."  Then 
he  added  aloud : 

"  I  wish  I  could  know  all  that  you  have  thought  in 
the  past  week.  You  are  quiet.  You  say  very  little. 
But  you  are  not  unobservant,  and  your  brain  works 
all  the  more  rapidly,  while  your  tongue  is  still.  Tell 
me  what  you  have  thought." 

"  That  is  impossible.  I  have  thought  of  too  many 
things  to  go  into  detail." 


250 


oea',  the  lost  wife. 


"  Then  give  me  the  general  course,  and  let  details 
alone." 

"Excuse  me.    I  had  rather  not." 

"  I  see,  I  am  throwing  away  words  vainly,"  he  said, 
rising  and  softly  pacing  the  room.  His  face  was  a 
puzzle  now.  Ora  could  not  tell  whether  he  was 
quizzing  her,  or  had  some  other  motive  than  mere 
amusement  in  the  course  he  was  pursuing.  His  face 
was  grave,  and  wore,  still,  a  dissatisfied  expression 
about  the  mouth  and  eyes.  He  returned  to  the  ground 
he  had  first  entered  upon. 

"You  know  me ?" 

"Tes  sir,  I  know  your  name,  and  also  that  your 
father  is  a  minister.    No  more." 

"Whom  do  you  suppose  that  girl  to  be?"  pointing 
to  the  bed. 

Ora  shook  her  head. 

"Would  you  like  to  know  very  much?" 
"Not  if  you  have  a  motive  in  keeping  the  relation 
concealed." 

"  You  have  surmised  whom  she  might  be.  Do  you 
suppose  she  is  my  wife?" 

"No."    Tone  and  manner  were  positive. 

"Who,  then?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"You  are  a  hard  customer,"  he  said,  half  laughing, 
"but  I  think  a  very  safe  one.  You  will  neither 
advance  or  quit  an  inch  without  seeing  your  way.  I 
have  quietly  contented  myself  with  observing  you.  I 
expected  after  the  strangeness  wore  off,  to  have  yoli 
shower  questions  upon  me,  and  had  prepared  to  stop 
you  suddenly.    You  have  disappointed  me,  and  out 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


251 


of  disappointment  interest  has  sprung  up.  Perhaps 
curiositj'  "were  a  better  word,  though  I  dare  say  you 
would  resent  it  if  I  applied  it  to  you.  I  have  never 
seen  a  woman  who  could  be  placed  in  so  important  a 
position  before,  without  asking  questions.  You  have 
been  surrounded  by  mystery,  and  yet  never  sought  to 
fathom  it  out.  I  can't  understand  you.  I  want  to 
know  more  about  you.    Tell  me.'' 

His  manner  put  Ora  at  ease.  She  would  not  gratify 
him  for  many  reasons. 

You  give  me  the  credit  for  generous  forbearance,'^ 
she  answered,  and  acquit  me  of  curiosity  where 
you  are  concerned.  Can  you  not  reward  it  by  like 
forbearance  ?" 

But  I  am  willing  to  answer  any  of  your  questions. 
Ask  me  all  you  wish." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  ask  any." 

"Because  that  would  give  me  a  right  to  question 
you?" 
Yes." 

''  Then  I  suppose  we  must  both  stumble  on  still  in 
the  dark.  I  have  no  idea  of  one-sided  favors.  I  am 
very  curious  about  you.  You  are  no  ordinary  woman. 
You  are  educated,  refined,  and  possess  pride  to  an 
intense  degree.  You  are  sensitive,  too  sensitive  for 
rude  or  humb.e  associations.  Yet  it  puzzles  me  ex- 
ceedingly to  guess  how  you,  with  your  mind,  personal 
appearance,  general  accomplishments  and  feelings, 
could  have  been  reduced  to  the  pitiful  extremity  in 
which  I  found  you." 

This  was  becoming  painful  in  the  extreme.  Ora 
shrank  from  such  close  pressing  upon  still  sore  wounds. 


252 


ORAj    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


''You  are  becomiDg  cruel,"  she  said  tremulously 
"Misfortunes  pressed  upon  me  too  heavily  for  my 
strength.    It  was  no  fault  that  brought  me  so  low." 

Forgive  me,"  he  begged  frankly.  "  I  do  not  mean 
to  bo  unkind  or  unreasonable.  I  believe  I  am  in  a 
singular  mood  this  morning.  I  suppose  it  arises  from 
the  fact  that  I  have  just  had  a  nice  dish  of  scandal  to 
discuss  at  breakfast,  fresh  from  the  generous  hand  of 
a  scandal-loving  public." 

Of  what  nature  ?  As  it  comes  through  the  public, 
of  course  it  is  not  of  a  private  nature,"  said  Ora,  only 
half  interested  in  what  he  might  have  found  to  amuse 
him,  and  set  him  into  so  teasing  and  disagreeable  a 
mood. 

A  moment's  dreamy  pause ;  then  he  answered. 
"  No ;  nothing  private ;  still,  it  touches  me,  because 
some  one  I  know  is  mixed  up  in  it.  Names  are.  not 
given,  so  1  will  not  take  license  the  newspapers 
forbear  to  take.  That  would  be  unkind.  It  is  this. 
A  young  man,  of  not  very  proper  habits,  I  must 
confess,  has  for  sometime  been  engaged  to  a  young 
lady  of  this  city.  She  is  a  phj^sician's  daughter,  and 
stands  high  in  the  social  world.  He  stands  high, 
also,  but  his  most  intimate  friends  know  him  to  be 
wild — or  rather  knew  him  to  be  wild.  Since  a  recent 
absence,  he  has  been  carrying  on  a  deep  game,  and 
kept  dark  as  possible.  People  began  to  look  on  him 
as  a  wondrous  example  of  reformation. 

"  I  believe  everything  run  smoothly  for  a  time. 
What  it  was  that  wrought  the  change,  is  not  known 
But  lately  the  match  was  broken  off,  and  the  brother 
of  the  girl  flew  out  most  furiously  in  search  of  the 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


253 


miscreant  lover^  determined  to  wreak  vengeance  on 
him  for  whatever  crime  he  may  have  committed.  The 
gentleman  was  not  to  be  found,  however.  Probably, 
expecting  a  storm,  he  betook  himself  to  shelter  in 
time — he  and  a  bosom  friend  of  his,  and  were  not 
discovered  till  yesterday.  Here,  now,  is  a  choice  morsel 
for  the  romantically  inclined.  This  blessed  young 
scamp  is  found  concealed  in  an  old  rickety  house  some 
distance  from  town,  where  poor  mortals  who  happen 
to  be  in  the  way  of  others,  have  been  snapped  up  and 
safely  caged  away  on  a  plea  of  madness.  Splendid 
institutions  these,  for  a  favored  land  like  ours ! 
Ora  shuddered. 

"Tou  cannot  mean  that  such  places  exist  here?" 
she  said. 

Yes,  here  as  elsewhere.  This  place  was  kept  by 
an  old  fiend — a  Janvrin,  or  Jarvis,  or  something  of 
that  sort.  A  number  of  poor  wretches,  goaded  to  the 
verge  of  madness,  were  found  there.  The  man  was 
imprisoned.  The  captives  liberated  and  placed  in 
proper  hands.  Amongst  them,  a  woman,  this  self- 
same sometime  lover  is  said  to  have  placed  there. 
Why,  it  is  not  known.  Some  whisper  that  she  was 
his  wife,  and  it  may  be  so,  for  from  the  course  things 
have  taken,  I  presume  nothing  short  of  such  villainy 
could  have  brought  on  the  issue  we  have  now  to 
contemplate.  To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  brother 
and  the  lover  met  in  mortal  combat.  Contrary  to  the 
usual  rule,  the  right  one  fell — the  lover  was  vanquished. 
He  did  not  live  three  hours  after  the  encounter,  and 
the  victor  made  good  his  escape  until  the  affixir  shall 
have  been  hushed  up.    I  am  glad  of  it.    I  glory  in 


2o4 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


the  boy's  spunk.  Had  it  been  my  sister,  I  should  wipe 
out  any  insult  offered  her  with  blood,  as  he  did." 

A  baleful  light  flashed  from  his  eyes  as  he  spoke, 
and  for  an  instant  their  glance  rested  upon  the  invalid. 
Ora  saw  both,  and  a  ray  of  intelligence  penetrated 
her  miPid  for  the  first  time.  Why  had  she  never 
thought  of  it  before  ?  But  then,  why  should  they  be 
alone,  and  so  apparently  friendless  2  All  was  dark 
as  before,  after  a  moment's  thought.  She  did  not 
attempt  to  clear  up  the  mystery.  Her  mind  was  too 
much  absorbed  with  thoughts  to  which  Mr.  Raymond's 
stoiiy  had  given  rise.  There  were  strange  evidences 
that  thrilled  her  through  with  conjecture.  She 
scarcely  dared  put  the  questions  that  crowded  to  her 
lips ;  yet  she  could  not  rest  in  the  suspense  of  uncer- 
tainty.   She  must  satisfy  herself. 

''And  the  lady — is  nothing  said  of  her  further  ?" 
she  ventured,  turning  her  face  away  to  hide  the  interest 
she  felt,  and  feared  he  might  notice. 

''Nothing." 

"  "Was  she  an  only  daughter  ?" 

"  No,  there  is  another,  a  young  girl  of  twelve.  I 
think,  also,  there  are  two  wards,  a  niece  and  an 
adopted  child.  The  son  was  an  only  son,  and  like  his 
father,  a  physician,  bidding  fair  to  rise  to  eminence,  if  1 
mistake  not.  Curse  these  meddlers,  who  are  never 
happy  out  of  mischief!  Honorable  shooting  was  too 
good  for  the  fellow.  He  ought  to  have  been  hung  like 
a  dog.  A  murderer  of  peace  and  honor  is  worse  than 
he  who  takes  life.  I  had  rather  have  a  sister  of  mine 
die,  than  to  stand  in  her  place — the  theme  of  every  gos- 
siping  tongue !    Yet  she,  poor  girl,  is  good  and  inno- 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


255 


ceut.  Once,  their  homo  circle  was  an  cden.  I  never 
remember  to  have  seen  one  more  perfect.  What  must 
it  be  to-day!    God  !    It  exasperates  me  to  think  of  it !" 

How  fierce  and  bitter  his  tone  was!  IIow  tifi;ht]y 
his  hand  clenched  as  he  spoke.  Had  he  cause  for 
Biich  depth  of  feeling  on  such  a  subject?  Looking 
up,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Ora's  white  lips,  and  eyes 
wild  as  if  in  afiright:    He  was  struck  dumb. 

How^  easily  you  are  frightened,"  he  said,  more 
calmly.  I  thought  you  had  more  nerve  than  to  be 
so  startled  at  a  little  burst  of  indignation.  Madame 
Nurse,  go  to  your  room  and  keep  quiet  until  I  call 
you.  Mind  that  you  get  some  better  color  in  your 
face,  too,  before  I  want  you." 

Without  waiting  further  permission,  Ora  rose  and 
left  the  room.  She  was  glad  to  escape  his  keen 
glance,  just  then,  for  her  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl, 
her  heart  throbbing  as  though  it  would  burst.  She 
could  not  doubt  that  she  understood  the  whole  story. 
Had  she  done  so,  the  paper  she  had  snatched  up  from 
the  hall  table  had  set  all  doubt  at  rest.  There  were 
the  initials  of  all  the  names,  though  as  Mr.  Eaymond 
■had  said,  the  names  were  withheld.  They  were  plain 
enough  to  her,  and  her  heart  grew  sick  with  its  weight 
of  excitement.  Bartoni  dead !  Harry  Clifton  a 
fugitive  !  Lina  a  broken-hearted  girl — an  anxious 
sister !  What  a  wreck  of  a  happy  circle,  truly ! 
"Raymond  was  right.  None  had  been  brighter,  and 
now  what  was  it?  And  he — that  man  who  had  been 
her  bane,  had  proved  theirs'  also  !  Something  of 
Theodore  Raymond's  bitter  spirit  was  stirred  within 
her.    Such  a  death  was  too  good  for  him ! 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


The  soft  haze  of  a  summer  twilight  was  upon  the 
earth,  and  its  deeper  shadows  were  creeping  slowly 
into  the  sick  chamber.  Calmness  reigned  throughout 
the  house.  All  things  seemed  lulled  to  repose 
about  it.  The  invalid  slept.  Since  becoming  conva- 
lescent, she  had  slept  more  than  half  the  time,  and 
her  guardian  grew  more  quiet  and  less  anxious  day- 
after  day. 

Another  week  had  passed.  Since  the  morning  he 
had  imparted  the  news  of  Bartoni's  death,  he  had 
scarcely  spoken  to  her,  except  to  give  brief,  short 
orders.  He  questioned  her  no  more.  His  visits  now 
were  as  frequent,  but  of  shorter  duration.  Once  he 
had  said  that  his  time  was  very  much  occupied,  and 
after  that,  vouchsafed  nothing  further. 

On  this  evening,  he  came  much  earlier  than  usual, 
and  sat  talking  cheerfully  to  the  invalid  till  she  fell 
asleep.  Then  he  drew  a  chair  into  the  piazza  in  the 
rear  of  the  building,  and  sat  sometime  with  his 
cigar,  enjoying  the  breeze  and  the  repose  of  things 
about  him. 

Presently  he  put  his  head  inside  the  door  and 
called  softly : 

"  Nurse,  bring  a  chair  out  liere." 

Rising  from  the  window  where  she  had  been 
sitting,  she  obeyed.  As  she  stepped  upon  the  piazza, 
(250 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


257 


he  took  the  chair  from  her  hand  and  carried  it  to  the 
further  end. 
-  "  There,  sit  down." 
She  hesitated. 

"  Is  it  safe  to  leave  our  patient  alone  ?" 

"  Quite.  Else  I  should  not  ask  you.  I  want  yon 
to  myself  a  little  while. 

She  did  not  like  his  tone  ;  nevertheless  she  sat  down 
and  suffered  hinpi  to  place  himself  near  her." 

"  I  want  you,"  he  began,  "  that  I  may  express  my 
sense  of  obligation  for  the  care  you  have  bestowed 
upon  that  poor  girl  in  there.  You  little  know  what 
she  has  suffered.  Did  you,  your  kind  heart  would 
break.  I  thought  1  should  go  mad  sometimes.  You 
have  been  so  faithful,  I  feel  deeply  your  debtor.  I 
know  I  have  said  little,  but  I  have  seen  and  felt  it 
none  the  less.  Will  you  consent  to  remain  her 
friend  and  companion,  as  long  as  I  may  wish  ?" 

"  I  will  remain  as  long  as  she  needs  me." 

"  And  suppose  I  should  wish  to  take  her  away 
from  here  ?  Would  you  travel  with  her — go  wherever 
she  went,  and  be  everything  to  her — her  true  and 
staunch  friend  through  all  things  ?" 

Ora  hesitated  in  painful  embarrassment.  .  How 
could  she  promise  this  without  a  greater  knowledge 
of  the  girl  she  was  requested  to  call  her  friend — to 
be  ever  near  her,  stand  in  the  light  of  companion 
and  most  intimate  associate  ? 

"  I  would,  if  I  could  feel  assured — " 

Here  she  broke  down.  She  could  not  finish  such  a 
sentence  to  him.  A  hot  flush  mounted  to  her  cheeks, 
and  she  was  silent. 

22 


258 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"Of  what?  Of  your  competency?  Never  fear. 
I  would  trust  you  with  the  most  precious  one  on 
earth.  I  want  change  for  her,  and  think  of  sending 
her  to  Newport,  or  Saratoga  for  a  few  weeks.  As 
soon  as  she  can  travel,  I  must  send  her.  You  can 
take  her  there.  There  is  no  one  else  I  could  trust  to 
do  it,  and  I  dare  not  follow  you  for  a  week.  You 
will  be  very  quiet,  of  course.  Will  be  seen  very 
little.  I  shall  send  her  there  for  her  health,  not 
society.    Poor  thing,  she  will  not  want  that  nowP 

He  bent  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and  sat  silent 
for  some  minutes.  Ora  remained  quiet,  but  her 
mind  was  in  a  state  of  fearful  indecision.  She  wanted 
to  ask  him  about  her  history,  but  remembering  the 
conversation  of  a  week  previous,  she  dared  not  do 
it.    He  relieved  her  at  length, 

"  I  have  not  dealt  altogether  fairly  with  you,  Mrs. 
Meredith.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  something 
definite  about  our  position.  I  saw  that  you  were 
perplexed,  and  I  enjoyed  it  too  much  to  break  the 
charm.  I  had  a  desire  to  see  how  long  you  could 
bear  the  uncertainty  without  questioning  me.  I  tried 
an  exchange  of  confidence  once,  but  failed.  I  intended 
to  have  satisfied  you  then,  but  your  reticence  deterred 
me.  It  shall  do  so  no  longer.  You  are  at  liberty 
to  keep  your  secrets.  I  need  you— am  satisfied  that 
you  will  do  all  I  wish  you  to  do.  I  know  you  a  fit  com- 
panion for  my  sister,  and  could  wish  for  no  better." 

His  eyes  strove  to  penetrate  the  dusk,  to  catch 
the  expression  of  her  face,  but  could  not.  He  felt 
her  little  start,  however.  She  felt  as  if  a  weight  had 
rolled  from  her  heart. 


ORA,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  259 


"Your  sister!"  she  exclaimed  after  a  moment's 
silence. 

"  YeSj  my  sister.    Child,  did  you  not  guess  it  ?" 

"  I  have  thought  so,  sometimes.  Still,  I  could  not 
understand  how  she  could  be  that,  and  no  others  near 
her.  Where  are  your  parents,  and  why  do  you  alone 
care  for  her  while  she  has  been  in  such  sulBfering  and 
danger  ?" 

"  Ay,  why  ?  It  is  a  pitiful  story,  my  little  friend, 
— you  are  my  friend,  are  you  not  ? — and  I  can  give  it 
you  in  a  few  words.  My  father  is  a  hard,  stern  man. 
We  two  are  his  only  children.  She  married  early, 
and  against  his  will.  She  is,  unfortunately,  self- 
willed  to  a  high  degree.  She  would  listen  to  no  one. 
Her  father  discarded  her,  and  six  months  after  her 
ill-starred  marriage,  her  villainous  husband  deserted 
her  amongst  strangers.  The  agony  of  the  heartless 
act,  made  her  ill.  She  wrote  me,  begging  for  aid  in 
her  distress.  In  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  I  took 
the  letter  to  my  father,  and  tried  to  intercede  for  her, 
I  begged  that  I  might  bring  her  home  again,  poor, 
repentant  sufferer!  He  flew  in  a  most  terrible 
passion,  declared  that  she  should  not  come  to  his 
house  again.  She  had  found  the  fruits  of  her  actions 
bitter,  but  she  must  eat  them.  I  tried  to  reason  with 
him,  reminded  him  of  his  duty  as  a  father  and  a 
professed  Christian — he  grew  worse  than  ever. 
Forbade  the  mention  of  her  name,  and  bade  me  seek 
her  out,  and  aid  her  at  the  peril  of  being,  like  her, 
cast  from  his  home  and  heart.  I  am  his  heir, 
dependent  upon  him  for  all  I  have.  He  gave  me  no  * 
profession.    A  poor,  pitiful  creature  I  should  be,  cast 


260 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


adrift.  I  was  tempted  at  first  to  brave  him,  for  my 
beautiful  sister  was  my  idol.  I  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  her  in  such  distress.  But  I  knew  my  father 
well.  Had  I  done  so,  I  should  have  been  cast  off 
penniless,  without  a  ray  of  hope  for  the  future.  In 
such  a  position,  I  could  place  my  sister  in  but  little 
better  circumstances  than  she  was  then.  It  takes 
time  and  labor  to  gain  anything.  Meantime,  she 
might  die.  I  dropped  the  subject  then  and  we  have 
not  spoken  her  name  in  his  house  since.  But  I  would 
not  let  her  die.  I  had  her  secretly  brought  here, 
and  all  that  money  could  provide,  has  been  given 
her,  all  that  kindness  could  do  has  been  done.  If  I 
daily  deceive  them  at  home,  it  is  not  as  black  as  the 
sin  of  her  banishment.  After  all,  I  do  not  deceive 
them.  They  ask  me  no  questions,  I  have  nothing  to 
answer.  I  pass  my  time  as  I  like,  and  make  use  of 
my  liberty  and  my  money  to  save  her.  And  I  will 
do  it.  Poor  Ellen  !  1  do  not  think  my  mother  would 
be  harsh,  only  for  my  father.  Every  soul  in  his 
house  is  his  slave,  myself  excepted.  She  dare  not 
thinlc^  except  of  him  and  his  will.  Therefore  she  is 
helpless.  I  will  not  harass  her  with  the  knowledge 
of  this  state  of  affairs.  She  is  ignorant.  I  will  let 
her  remain  so.  As  for  my  father,  the  day  may  come 
when  God  will  soften  his  heart  to  a  spark  of 
liumanity." 

Ora's  heart  was  full  of  bitter  pain. 

"  Suffering — nothing  but  suffering  everywhere  1 
The  earth  was  full  of  it.  Where  could  she  turn,  and 
find  it  not?    No  where,  this  side  the  grave." 

"Now"  he  continued,  "you  understand  our  rela- 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


261 


tion  and  position.  You  see  why  I  must  act  carefully. 
It  is  more  for  her  sake  than  my  own.  If  I  cause  a 
breach,  both  of  us  are  hopelessly  set  adrift.  Can  I 
but  get  along  smoothly,  I  shall  have  enough  for  the 
comfort  of  both,  and  I  will  see  that  my  sister  has 
her  full  share.  Am  I  right  ?  Can  you  condemn  my 
course  ?" 

"No.  You  are  justified,  knowing  the  ground  on 
.which  you  stand.  I  admire  your  earnest  devotion  to 
your  poor  sister,  beyond  expression.  Could  you 
have  the  heart  to  abandon  her  to  the  cold  world  in 
sickness  and  poverty?  You  are  right  in  all  you 
have  done." 

"  I  knew  you  would  say  so.  I  could  not  do  other- 
wise. It  would  be  foolish  to  recklessly  cast  away  * 
the  means  of  helping  her  by  braving  my  father.  But 
it  would  be  damnable  to  desert  her,  and  selfishly  revel 
in  her  portion  while  she  starved.  God !  to  think 
of  it!" 

He  was  strangely  excitable  at  times,  and  these 
exclamations  seemed  much  at  variance  with  his 
general  manner.  He  was  not  profane.  A  deep 
under  current  of  religious  sentiment  ran  through  his 
nature.  But  he  did  not  evince  it  in  his  father's  way. 
It  proved  itself  in  daily  practice  of  good  and  generous 
works.  He  assumed  nothing.  Sincere,  generous 
and  charitable,  he  never  refused  aid  to  the  sufiering. 
If  there  was  a  blemish  in  the  character  of  Theodore 
Raymond,  it  consisted  in  the  deep  bitterness  to  which 
his  father's  injustice  gave  rise.  It  was  contempt  and 
disdain  for  small,  pitiful  deeds,  while  wearing  the 
outward  garb  of  one  who  "  walks  with  God."  The 


262  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 

elder  Raymond,  a  hard,  cruel,  and  at  heart  unfeeling 
man,  was  an  object  of  contempt  to  his  child — almost 
of  hatred. 

This  is  hardly  to  be  called  unnatural,  reader. 
From  infancy,  he  had  known  him  but  as  a  tyrant. 
Before  the  world  he  saw  him  stand  as  one  "  chosen 
of  the  Lord."  In  the  home  circle,  he  knew  him  guilty 
of  deeds,  any  generous,  upright  man  would  shun  as 
a  pestilence,  and  he  knew  him  for  a  hypocrite.  To 
one  just  and  high  principled  as  Theodore,  such 
characters  could  but  be  .repugnant,  even  though  of 
his  own  flesh  and  blood. 

"I  dare  say  you  think  very  strangely  of  me,"  he 
remarked  to  Mrs.  Meredith  after  awhile.  "  I  ought 
to  beg  your  pardon  for  my  vehemence.  But  it  half 
maddens  me  sometimes.  I  am  forced  into  a  position 
most  painful,  for  one  of  my  feelings.  Were  I  alone 
interested,  I  should  not  fear  to  launch  boldly  upon 
the  tide,  and  steer  my  course  alone  amongst  life's 
breakers.  I  have  thought  often,  that  I  would  prefer 
it.  But  to  do  this  would  not  save  my  poor  sister, 
and  it  would  certainly  break  my  mother's  heart.  I 
have  no  right  to  disregard  her  happiness.  Her 
trials  are  heavy,  already,  poor  mother!  What  a 
troublesome  world  we  live  in,"  he  sighed  out  at  the 
close. 

"  Yes,  I  have  found  it  so." 

Ora  answered  the  exclamation  half  dreamily ;  but 
there  was  a  thrill  of  sadness  in  her  tone  which  made 
her  listener  cast  another  piercing  glance  toward  her 
face.  It  was  veiled  so  deeply,  however,  that  tho 
expression  was  lost  in  darkness. 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


263 


Come  into  the  house,"  said  he  rising  abruj^tly. 
It  is  too  damp  for  you  out  here.    You  will  be  taking 
cold." 

Ora  rose  and  followed  him,  wondering  at  the 
apparent  inconsistencies  of  the  young  man's  charac- 
ter. He  was  growing  more  and  more  authoritative, 
and  even  brusque,  as  he  began  to  know  her,  or  rather 
get  used  to  her.  Yet  she  knew  him  at  heart  kind 
and  gentle  as  a  woman.  She  had  seen  him  so  in  his 
manner.  If  this  was  assumed,  for  what  purpose  was 
it?    It  puzzled  her  to  conjecture. 

On  this  evening,  Mr.  Raymond  went  away  earlier 
than  usual,  even  as  he  had  come.  And  also,  after  a 
long  conversation  with  Ellen,  who  woke  before  he 
left,  took  leave  of  the  nurse  in  a  new  style.  He 
called  her  out  as  he  went,  on  pretence  of  giving 
some  orders  concerning  his  sister.  When  at  the  door, 
he  paused  and  stood  on  the  steps  several  minutes. 
The  moon  had  risen,  and  fell  in  a  broad  glare  over 
the  front  of  the  building.  His  bared  head  was  lifted 
proudly — his  white  brow  bathed  in  the  silvery  beams. 
Ora  thought  he  looked  very  noble  and  handsome  as 
he  stood  there,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  shining 
constellations  above. 

"  I  think  you  need  not  sit  up,  to-night,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith," he  said,  at  length,  turning  to  her.  "  Ellen  is 
so  much  better  that  the  girl's  attendance  will  be  all 
she  wants.  I  must  guard  your  health  in  order  to 
keep  you.  If  I  allow  you  to  wear  yourself  out,  then 
we  might  lose  you.  After  this  I  must  not  stay.  I 
would,  if  necessary,  but  it  is  not,  since  the  danger  is 
past,  and  it  is  important  for  me  to  be  at  home. 


2G4 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Father  begins  already  to  show  signs  of  displeasure 
at  my  actions,  though  he  seldom  interferes  with  mo 
in  anyway.  I  must  be  guarded.  Will  you  retire 
early  and  leave  the  girl  to  attend  Ellen  ?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

"No?    Why,  pray?" 

"  Because  it  would  not  be  right.  She  may  be  out 
of  danger ;  still  it  is  my  duty  to  be  near  her  while 
still  so  weak  and  ill.    She  is  helpless,  as  yet." 

"  But  you  may  get  sick." 

"  1  do  not  fear  it,  and  I  hope  I  am  not  so  selfish  as 
to  shun  my  duty  on  so  slight  a  pretext.  I  do  not 
love  ease  quite  so  well  as  that." 

"  Hush  !  who  thought  of  such  a  thing !" 
r  His  tone  was  almost  contemptuous,  but  he  looked 
pleased.    Then  he  said  in  a  voice  very  difierent  from 
the  first,  it  was  so  gentle  and  earnest : 

"You  are  kind.  My  sister  will  one  day  be  your 
staunch  friend.  Perhaps  you  may  need  her,  too.  I 
imagine  you  have  few  enough.  You  may  count  me 
one,  however,  always,  if  1  may  claim  the  title. 
May  I?" 

"  You  are  too  good,"  was  the  tremulous  response. 
A  chord  of  feeling  vibrated  to  the  earnest,  manly 
sympathy  of  his  tone. 

"  I  shall  feel  glad  to  know  you  such,  most  assured- 

ly." 

She  had  only  uttered  frankly  what  she  felt. 

"  Thank  you.  Now,  my  little  Nurse,  I  must  leave 
you.  Have  Jane  bring  a  cot  in  Ellen's  room,  and  do 
you  rest  there.  I  don't  like  to  have  you  sit  up  all 
night,  as  I  think  you  intend  to  do." 


OI^A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


265 


*  It  will  not  hurt  me." 

"  It  might.    You  are  not  strong." 

'^I  have  been  well  cared  for,  however.  You 
employ  me  to  nurse,  and  take  all  the  heavy  night 
watches  on  yourself.  More  than  this,  1  am  satislied^ 
and  that  is  a  great  deal.  Physical  labor  is  as  nothing 
to  an  overtaxed  heart  and  brain." 

"  Then  your  mind  and  heart  are  at  rest,  you  would 
imply  ?    I  am  glad." 

"  As  near  rest  as  a  wanderer's  can  be,"  she  answered 
sadly.  "  I  have  lost  home  and  friends.  Still,  there 
is  an  air  of  peace  and  security  under  your  roof  that 
is  soothing.  I  should  have  died  without  this  haven 
into  which  a  kind  Providence  allowed  my  barque  to 
drift." 

"  Ah !  you  make  me  feel  thankful.  I  have  some- 
times wondered  how  you  felt,  but  feared  to  ask  you. 
I  hope  you  may  find  it  always  a  congenial  atmosphere 
where  we  dwell.  You  will  at  least  find  friendly 
spirits.  Now  I  will  not  keep  you  out  here.  Good 
night." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  clasped  her's  kindly, 
riis  tone  and  manner  were  almost  tender.  The  look 
he  gave  at  the  "good-night"  almost  meaning  in  its 
depth.  Ora  faltered  out  a  response  and  hastily 
closed  the  door.  Her  heart  was  in  a  strange  flutter- 
Something  in  the  change  disturbed  her.  Yet  she 
could  not  have  told  why.  He  had  been  only  kind — 
very  kind.  But  the  sharpest  critic  could  not  have 
discovered  more  than  mere  interest  in  his  manner. 
Any  one,  with  but  humane  feeling,  might  have  acted 
the  same.    Yet  it  disturbed  her  deeply. 

23 


266  ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


Ellen's  large  eyes  were  wide  open  when  Ora 
entered  the  room.  She  seemed  now  quite  indisposed 
to  go  to  sleep  again,  and  soon  began  to  toss  restlessly. 

"  Oh,  this  is  wearying  work,"  she  moaned  faintly. 
"I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  learn  patience  to  endure 
meekly  all  that  I  feel 

Ora  sat  down  near  her,  taking  in  hers  both  wasted 
little  hands. 

Are  you  in  pain,  dear 

"  Yes,  but  not  bodily.  I  cannot  help  thinking,  and 
when  I  do,  my  heart  and  brain  get  on  fire.  Oh,  why 
are  some  people  doomed  to  bring  sorrow  to  all  they 
love,  while  others — why  was  /  born?'' 

A  cry  like  this  a  hundred  times  had  forced  its  way 
from  Ora's  lips.  She  had  wailed  out  in  her  bitter 
agony,  and  cried  "  why  was  I  born  ?"  She  could 
comprehend  the  feelings  that  gave  birth  to  the  plaint 
She  could  sincerely  pity  the  poor  girl  before  her,  of 
whose  wretched  life  she  had  heard  from  the  lips  of 
the  brother.  With  quivering  lips  she  stooped  ovej 
her  with  a  strong  impulse  of  sympathy,  clasped  the 
frail  form  in  her  arms,  and  hushed  the  sobs  that 
shook  it,  as  she  would  a  child's.  Wisely  she  forbore 
words.  The  little  tempest  soon  spent  itself.  The 
tears  ceased,  but  the  poor  suflfering  heart,  pining  for 
sympathy,  could  not  carry  its  weary  load  alone. 

Theodore  told  you  all  about  me,"  she  said  a' 
length,  more  calmly.  "  I  once  felt  afraid  to  speak 
The  wounds  in  my  heart  are  so  deep,  I  shrink  froni 
baring  them  to  mortal  eyes.  But  sometimes  I  have 
wanted  my  mother,  and  longed  so  wildly  for  hei 
bosom  to  pillow  my  head,  that  I  have  thought  of 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


2G7 


taking  you  into  my  confidence — of  tolling  you  every- 
thing, that  I  might  have  your  sympathy.  1  thought 
you  could  in  a  measure  supply  her  place,  for  Itlared 
not  send  to  her.  Oh,  nurse,  you  are  a  woman  and 
know  my  sorrow — ^you  can  pity  me  !" 

"  Pity  you !  from  my  soul  I  do !"  she  breathed 
earnestly,  tenderly  clasping  her  close  to  her  bosom, 
and  smoothing  back  the  tangled  tresses  from  the 
broad  forehead.  Tears  were  silently  coursing  down 
her  cheeks  and  falling  upon  the  pillow.  '  Ah,  could 
slie  not  feel?'  Every  heart  throb  of  pain  was 
more  than  answered  by  her  own.  Hers  was  old  in 
sorrow. 

"How  much  better  for  all,  could  I  have  died," 
murmured  Ellen,  sadly.  "  Now  I  must  live  an  outcast 
from  my  father's  dwelling,  bereft  of  his  love,  barred 
from  my  mother  by  his  will,  as  eflfectually  as  though 
the  grave  indeed  enclosed  me.  A  burthen  upon  my 
brother — a  curse  to  myself!  Ah!  why  could  I  not 
die  ?" 

"  Hush  !  this  is  rebellious !  Tour  present  pain 
exaggerates  your  view  of  your  condition.  Your 
father  is  but  human,  and  has  human  weaknesses. 
His  will  is  not  too  strong  to  break  before  the  tide  of 
natural  afiection.  He  may  relent,  and  you  be  called 
to  return  to  his  arms.  Do  you  imagine  that  anything 
is  permitted  to  fall  upon  us  thus  heavily,  without  a 
purpose  in  it  ?  Good  to  all  may  spring  from  this 
blow.    Be  patient.    God  is  very  merciful." 

How  can  it  be,  when  he  sees  us  so  helpless  in 
His  hand,  and  yet  sends  us  sufferings  greater  than 
we  can  bear.    Oh!  I  can  see  no  mercy  in  it !  He 


208  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


makes  us  weak,  and  then  punishes  us  for  out  weak- 
ness !" 

"  Ellen !  were  you  less  excited,  you  would  not  utter 
such  words  as  those  you  have  spoken  !  Calm  your- 
self, dear.  I  cannot  let  you  get  so  nervdus.  You 
will  be  ill'  again.  Another  time,  when  you  are 
stronger,  I  will  point  out  to  you  many  blessings  and 
mercie«  which  you  overlook  in  your  present  state  of 
mind." 

"  Point  them  out  to  me  now.  They  may  serve  to 
calm  me.  I  see  nothing  but  darkness  and  misery — 
not  one  ray  of  merciful  light.  I  cannot  see  for  what 
purpose  I  have  been  created.  I  have  known  nothing 
but  bitterness  all  my  life.  A  brief  period  of  infatua- 
tion dazzled  me — I  was  intoxicated  with  the  strange 
new  joy  that  dawned  upon  me.  Shut  out  all  my  life 
from  the  fountains  of  natural  affection,  you  may 
guess  how  eagerly  I  drank  of  the  proffered  cup  when 
it  was  held  to  my  lips  by  one  who  seemed  a  very 
Apollo  in  his  magnificent  beauty.  Ah !  how  soon  I 
reached  the  dregs  !  They  have  tinctured  every  drop 
of  my  blood  with  their  poison,  and  will  eventually 
end  my  miserable  existence  by  lashing  it  to  maniac 
fury!" 

"  You  must  not  think  of  this  so  intensely.  Bad  it 
is,  but  it  might  have  been  worse.  You  have  suffered 
the  bitter  pangs  of  disappointment — seen,  as  have 
many  others,  your  idol  shattered  to  worthless  dust  at 
your  feet.  Nevertheless,  it  is  yours  to  ignore  the 
past,  and  rise  in  the  future  to  a  happier  existence. 
Experience  comes  to  us  in  a  dark  and  fearful  guise, 
8:metimes.    Yet  the  lessons  she  brings,  are  of  more 


ORA,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  2G9 


than  golden  value.  You  are  young  yet,  very  young 
and  fair.  Health  will  soon  return  and  give  bloom  to 
your  cheek  and  light  to  your  eye.  You  will  gain 
with  your  strength,  new  hopes  and  aspirations.  As 
you  go  out  into  the  world  again,  you  will  lind  new 
scenes  and  occupations,  and  will  have  the  advantage 
oi  this  experience  of  your  life  to  guide  you  over 
dangerous  grounds.  Every  trial  comes  to  us  for 
good ;  believe  it  and  be  hopeful." 

"  Ah  !  it  is  easy  for  those  to  speak  as  you  do,  who 
have  not  had  their  idols  shattered  I  their  fairest 
hopes  crushed  and  trampled  beyond  restoration. 
Had  you  ever  suffered  as  I  have,  you  could  not  talk 
to  me  in  this  strain,  and  so  calmly  1" 

A  sad  smile  played  over  the  features  of  the  nurse. 
She  was  half  tempted  to  tell  her  the  story  of  a  love 
lost — an  idol  shattered — of  years  of  suffering,  toil 
and  disgrace,  of  a  little  head  lying  beneath  the  sod* 
to-night  under  the  pale  stars,  and  a  heart  desolate 
with  all  this,  striving  hopefully  to  rise  and  send  to  the 
lips  a  word  of  comfort  for  the  little  being  clasped  in 
her  arms. 

Hours  elapsed  ere  Ellen  yielded  to  slumber.  Ora 
tried  almost  vainly  to  soothe  and  quiet  the  excited 
nerves  of  her  patient.  Restless  and  feverish,  she 
tossed,  moaned  and  wailed,  until  a  fear  rose  strongly 
of  a  relapse  into  the  illness  from  which  she  was 
recovering.  Relief  came  at  last.  The  eyes  closed, 
and  the  panting  breast  heaved  only  to  gentle  respira- 
tion. Thankfully  —  prayerfully,  Ora  smoothed  the 
drapery  around  the  bed,  and  then  laid  down  upon  the 
couch  beside  the  sufferer  to  watch  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXY. 


''Tou  have  not  closed  your  eyes  since  t  left  you," 
was  Mr.  Raymond's  salutation.  "  I  see  you  are  on 
a  par  with  the  whole  race  of  womankind." 

"  In  what  respect  ?" 

"  Contrariness !" 

Ora  laughed  lightly,  but  Ellen  said  for  her,  quickly 
and  eagerly: 

"  She  is  not  contrary,  brother.  If  she  did  not  sleep, 
the  fault  was  mine.  1  got  wild  and  restless  last  night. 
I  must  have  worried  her  dreadfully." 

"  What  made  you  restless  ?" 
You  know,  without  the  necessity  of  repeating," 
she  answered  quietly.  I  had  been  thinking,  while 
you  were  at  the  door,  and  knowing  you  had  told  her 
about  it,  I  gave  vent  to  my  pent  up  feelings,  and  it 
was  hours  before  she  got  me  quiet.  It  has  done  me 
good,  though.  I  feel  better  for  her  sympathy.  I  am 
glad  she  knows  all." 

"Blessed  institutions  after  all,"  said  Theodore  with 
a  merry  sm.ile.    Ora  looked  up  and  questioned : 

"What?" 

"  Women.  Give  me  a  woman  to  soothe  and 
comfort.  They  take  the  roughest,  most  jagged  points 
and  smooth  them  to  things  of  beauty  and  loveliness, 
even." 

"  How  inconsistent  you  are,  sir." 
(270) 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


271 


"Not  at  all.  I  called  you  contrary  because  you 
disobeyed  a  particular  order.  Now  I  call  you  a  blessed 
institution  for  having  done  what  no  man  could  have 
done  at  such  a  time.  Even  I,  her  brother,  could  not 
have  soothed  her  in  one  of  those  fits.  She  would  have 
worn  herself  out,  and  to-day  been  at  death's  door 
again,  most  likely.  As  it  is,  she  is  better  than  before, 
and  rejoicing  over  womanly  sympathy.    Good  !" 

Ora  said  no  more  on  the  subject.  A  look  similar 
to  his  parting  look  of  last  night,  brought  a  troubled 
light  into  her  eyes,  which  she  turned  her  face  from  him 
to  conceal.  And  yet  the  next  moment,  stealing  a 
glance  at  his  face  as  he  sat  talking  to  Ellen,  she 
condemned  herself  for  foolish  fancies.  He  had  grown 
so  utterly  oblivious  of  her  presence,  looked  so  quietly 
unconscious  of  everything  save  the  invalid  sister  under 
his  care,  she  even  began  to  smile  at  herself  for  being 
so  silly  as  to  feel  disturbed  at  all. 

Yet  we  may  not  wonder  that  her  senses  were  ever 
on  the  alert,  and  that  she  constantly  scanned  her  path 
for  the  shadows  lying  across  it.  She  had  suffered 
enough  to  make  her  far-seeing  and  cautious. 

That  same  day,  all  arrangements  being  fully  dis- 
cussed for  the  proposed  trip,  Ora  set  about  arranging 
the  wardrobes  for  Ellen  and  herself.  The  former's 
was  rich  and  ample.  She  should  want  but  few 
things.  In  the  absence  of  his  parents,  Theodore  had 
gone  to  the  room  once  belonging  to  his  sister,  now 
locked  and  forbidden  premises,  and  taken  out  all  he 
thought  she  might  need — himself  packing  them  and 
sending  off  the  trunks  by  porters  he  brought  'for  the 
purpose. 


272 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


For  herself  Ora  needed  but  little.  She  wore  simple 
black  always.  A  short  time  from  the  beginning  of 
preparations,  everything  was  complete. 

The  first  of  July  found  them  installed  in  comfortable 
rooms  at  Saratoga.  Theodore  had  written  some  time 
previously  to  engage  them,  and  when  able  to  travel, 
sent  Ellen  and  Ora  to  take  possession.  She  was  to 
keep  him  advised  of  the  patient's  progress  by  letter ; 
he  would  not  follow  till  the  first  of  August  unless 
Ellen  should  grow  worse. 

The  rooms  were  large  and  commodious,  command- 
ing a  pretty  view  from  the  windows.  Two  bedrooms 
and  a  parlor  finely  furnished  and  communicating. 
Ellen  looked  pleased,  almost  happy  as  she  surveyed 
the  elegant  furniture.  The  light  shone  so  pleasantly 
in  upon  them  as  they  sat  in  the  parlor,  and  there  was 
a  fine  piano  and  a  guitar  standing  just  as  her  own 
stood  before  she  became  a  fugitive  from  love  and  home. 
How  thoughtfully  careful  had  Theodore  been  of  his 
wilful,  erring  sister  !  Tears  filled  the  large  eyes  and 
dropped  over  the  wan  cheeks,  even  while  she  smiled, 
and  she  exclaimed  fervently  : 

Oh,  nurse,  I  feel  the  truth  of  which  you  have  so 
often  spoken,  more  forcibly  at  this  moment  than  I 
have  ever  felt.  God  is  merciful,  in  spite  of  my 
unworthiness.  See  what  a  blessing  he  gives  me  in 
my  dear,  kind  brother !  Oh,  what  would  become  of 
me  without  him !" 

''God  would  find  means  of  caring  for  you  still," 
was  the  reply.  "  He  who  numbers  the  hairs  of  our 
heads,  and  'suffers  not  a  sparrow  to  fall  to  the  ground,' 
will  surely  guard  a  soul  He  loves,  and  keep  it  for  His 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


273 


own  glory.  Who  knows  how  much  you  may  yet  do 
for  His  sake  ?" 

Everything  was  strange  about  them,  yet  they  found 
no  time  for  loneliness.  A  well  stored  book  case 
supplied  them  with  reading  matter,  and  Ora  divided 
the  hours  as  best  suited  the  taste  of  the  invalid. 
Sometimes  she  read  aloud  for  her,  and  when  she  tired, 
she  conversed  with,  or  played  for  her.  A  proficient 
in  music,  the  pleasure  she  gave  was  beyond  descrip- 
tion. It  needed  one  to  catch  the  sweet,  rich  tones  of 
her  voice,  to  understand  the  ecstatic  thrill,  music  can 
give.  We  have  spoken  often  before  of  this  glorious 
gift.  Now  it  was  destined  to  prove  a  source  of  both 
pleasure  and  annoyance. 

It  was  Ora's  delight  ever,  to  sit  at  the  piano  in  the 
evening  hour,  breathing  softly  the  airs  she  best  loved. 
Ellen  was  weary,  and  retired  early.  Ora  could  not 
go  so  soon,  and  Ellen  begged  her  to  play.  Only 
snatches  of  song  came  to  her  lips  at  first.  One  after 
another,  she  skimmed  lightly  over  for  half  an  hour. 
But  the  soul  of  music  was  being  stirred  within  her. 
Soon  she  took  up  deeper,  richer  strains,  giving  to  her 
voice  its  full  scope  and  power.  It  thrilled  the  night 
hour,  and  hushed  the  sounds  of  more  discordant 
notes  by  oversweeping  them  with  its  mighty  waves. 
One  by  one,  strollers  gathered  beneath  the,  balconies 
of  their  room.  The  couples  paused  in  their  prome- 
nades. Light  vehicles  were  whirling  by  whose 
occupants  seeing  the  groups  gathered  there,  drew  in 
reins  and  listened  entranced,  while  the  unconscious 
songstress  poured  out  those  sublime  notes  that  would 
have  won  laurels  of  fame  for  a  prima  donna.  Ora 


274 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


always  felt, when  she  sung  thus.  She  was  trembling 
from  excels  of  it  now,  when  she  rose  and  parting  the 
curtains  lightly,  stood  upon  the  balcony.  A  moment 
she  breathed  the  fresh  air,  drinking  in  the  beauty  of 
the  summer  night,  when  suddenly  her  eye  caught  the 
dispersing  crowd  beneath  her.  She  would  have  given 
it  no  second  thought,  perhaps,  had  not  a  murmur 
reached  her  ear,  out  of  which  the  words  came  to  her 
distinctly : 

^'A  fine  voice!  man  alive!  it  is  superb,  sublime! 
Who  can  it  be,  I  wonder  ?  I  would  give  the  world 
for  a  sight  of  the  lips  from  which  strains  like  those 
can  issue  !  She  must  be  beautiful !  Will  she  sing 
again?  Listen!" 

The  voice  ceased,  and  Ora  shrank  back  within  the 
room.  To  deny  that  she  knew  of  whom  they  spoke, 
would  have  been  affectation,  and  that  was  a  quality 
she  did  not  possess.  A  thrill  passed  through  her 
heart — a  thrill  of  pleasure.  This  was  a  gift  for  which 
she  was  fervently  thankful.  She  was  less  miserable 
when  she  could  exercise  it  freely. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  the  excitement  she 
was  destined  to  create.  Ellen  loved  to  hear  her  sing, 
and  she  would  not  refuse  to  gratify  her.  Evening 
after  evening,  the  sweet  tones  filled  the  room,  and 
were  wafted  out  upon  the  night  to  the  ears  that  grouped 
round  to  catch  tlie  strains. 

She  knew  that  crowds  were  invariably  attracted 
there,  but  she  had  no  fear.  No  one  would  dare  to 
come  to  their  apartments,  and  they  never  stirred 
from  them  except  in  a  close  carriage  to  take  a 
drive.   Then  both  were  closely  veiled.    No  danger  of 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


275 


either  beiug  recognized,  even  were  they  not  among 
strangers. 

Ttiis  monotonous  life  was  becoming  wearisome, 
however.  Ora  longed  for  some  change.  At  times 
she  grew  so  restless  as  to  find  the  confinement  almost 
intolerable,  and  one  evening  after  Ellen  fell  asleep, 
ventured  to  descend  to  the  "Ladies'  Reception  lioom. 
She  dared  not  go  into  the  parlor  ;  that  was  thronged 
with  gay  visitors,  and  in  her  sable  robes,  with  her 
quiet,  mournful  face,  unattended,  also,  as  she  was,  she 
would  have  seemed  out  of  place.  She  found  a  serene 
pleasure,  however,  in  looking  about  her ;  it  seemed 
like  a  brief  respite  from  the  walls  of  a  prison,  to  get 
into  another  part  of  the  house. 

Through  the  open  doors  and  windows,  came  floating 
in  gay  bursts  of  laughter,  mingled  with  music.  A 
pair  of  swift  hands  swept  the  keys  of  the  piano  in  the 
parlor,  separated  from  her  by  a  wide  hall.  Standing 
near  the  open  door,  she  observed  a  hush  in  the  murmur 
of  the  many  voices,  and  then  a  merry  little  air  was 
executed  with  great  spirit.  Merriment  followed  it. 
There  was  abuzz  and  clamor  at  the  end,  then  another 
song  with  greater  spirit  still,  told  the  eflect  of  admira- 
tion upon  the  songstress.  Ora  thought  the  voice  very 
clear  and  sweet.  A  fancy  of  familiarity  made  her 
steal  into  the  hall  and  glance  toward  the  piano.  There 
was  a  group  around  it,  but  through  a  little  parting 
she  saw  a  dark,  sparkling  face  wreathed  in  smiles. 
The  shining  black  hair  glittered  in  the  heavy  coils 
wound  around  the  head  in  fantastic  fashion.  The 
eyes  blazed  and  flashed  ;  the  round  cheek  wore  a 
carnation  flush.    The  ruby  lips  parted  to  disclose  teeth 


276 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


that  shone  in  pearl-like  whiteness.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  figure  or  features.  She  had  to  lean 
against  the  wall  to  keep  from  falling,  as  the  increasing 
throng  shut  out  the  vision. 

Her  head  swam,  her  heart  ached  as  she  turned  back 
to  her  room.  No  one  noticed  the  little  slender  figure 
as  she  glided  away  and  up  the  broad  stairway.  Had 
they  done  so,  they  might  have  been  startled  at  -the 
livid  hue  of  her  face.  It  looked  as  if  the  hand  of 
death  had  smitten  her. 

As  one  in  a  frightful  dream,  she  glided  on  to  hei 
room,  and  throwing  herself  upon  the  couch  without 
undressing,  turned  her  face  to  the  pillow  and  lay  still. 
Hours  sped  unheeded.  It  was  near  morning  ere  a 
stir  gave  signs  of  life  to  the  still  form.  Then  the 
floodgates  of  feeling  were  raised,  and  violent  sobs 
shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  wept  long  and 
passionately,  burying  her  face  deep  in  the  pillows, 
lest  a  sound  should  reach  Ellen's  ears,  and  startle  her 
into  questions  she  might  not  answer. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


The  last  of  July  brought  Mr.  Raymond.  He  had 
got  away  earlier  than  he  expected,  and  brought  with 
him  some  stirring  news,  especially  for  Ellen. 

"  Father  and  mother  are  coming  on,"  he  said,  after 
the  first  salutation  had  passed  between  them. 

^'  Papa  and  mamma  !  Oh,  brother,  what  brings, 
them  here — what  shall  we  do  ?" 

Theodore  laughed  at  her  alarm. 

"  Well,  to  answer  your  first  question,  father's  health 
is  giving  way,  and  he  must  have  change.  Mother 
accompanies  him,  and  they  will  make  a  short  tour  of 
all  the  watering  places.  It  is  easy  enough  for  us  to 
get  along.  The  proprietor  of  the  hotel  is  in  my 
confidence,  and  you  can  merely  keep  your  room  the 
few  days  they  may  remain.  There  is  no  danger  of 
their  finding  you  out.  I  proposed  preceding  them  by 
a  day  or  two,  to  engage  rooms  and  look  about  a  little. 
I  shall  have  to  go  with  them,  perhaps,  from  here. 
Don't  look  so  blank,  Ellen.  I  can  manage  an  excuse 
to  leave  them  somewhere  else,  and  rej  oin  you  shortly." 

"  Oh,  Theodore—" 

"Well,  what  is  it,  dear?" 

"  It  seems  so  hard — " 

"What  seems  hard?" 

"  Why,  that  my  dear  mother  should  come  so  near 
me — live  under  the  same  roof,  and  I  dare  not  go  to 
(2Y7) 


278  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


her — dare  not  see  or  speak  to  her  for  a  moment,  but 
hide  myself  like  a  criminal  from  her  sight." 

Ellen  covered  her  face  with  her  thin  hands,  and 
Theodore's  face  showed  signs  of  emotion  he  could 
not  conceal.  Gently  drawing  the  little  hands  away, 
he  kissed  her  wet  cheek  tenderly. 

"  Do  not  think  of  it,  Ellen.  I  know  it  is  hard, 
dear  sister,  but  the  cloud  will  pass.  The  time  may 
soon  come  when  you  can  go  back  to  mother's  arms 
and  heart  as  of  old." 

Ellen  looked  up  quickly.  A  singular  light  was  in 
her  brother's  eyes, 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Theodore  ?"  she  asked  half  • 
under  her  breath,  "  Why  do  you  say  this — why  do 
you  look  so  ?" 

"  Cannot  you  think  ?" 

He  regarded  her  steadily. 

"  No,  brother,"  but  her  cheek  paled  in  spite  of  the 
denial. 

"  Mother  has  always  loved  and  pitied  you.  She 
dared  not  show  it  because  of  his  unbending  will. 
Were  he  gone,  what  would  hinder  her  acting  as 
feeling  dictates  ?" 

"  Then  you  think — you  think — " 

She  faltered  painfully. 

"  I  think  our  father  will  not  live  long,"  answered 
Theodore  in  a  low  tone,  but  very  calmly. 

Again  Ellen's  face  dropped  in  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  God  forgive  me,"  she  murmured  penitently. 
"Theodore,  our  father's  tyranny  and  unnatural 
hardness  of  heart  against  us,  has  almost  made  me 
hate  him.    Oh,  I  pray  God  forgive  me !" 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


279 


The  brother  made  no  reply.  His  knit  brow  told  of 
dark  thoughts  as  he  sat  with  eyes  bent  upon  the 
carpet.  Evidently  the  sister's  sentiments  were  felt 
as  deeply  by  himself.  Whether  her  penitence,  is  not 
known. 

During  this  conversation  Ora  had  withdrawn  with 
a  book  into  one  of  the  farthest  windows.  Though  a 
confidant  in  their  painful  position,  her  delicacy  of 
feeling  prompted  her  to  leave  them  to  discuss  it  freely, 
unrestrained  by  her  presence.  She  could  not  leave 
the  parlor.  As  the  next  best  thing,  she  chose  the 
window,  and  drew  the  curtain  about  her. 

The  pause  that  followed  Ellen's  last  outburst  was 
broken  by  a  stifled  cry  from  Ora's  retreat.  Without 
stopping  to  think,  Theodore  rose  and  crossed  the 
room  to  her  side.  As  he  drew  back  the  curtains,  she 
turned  her  face  as  far  from  him  as  possible,  to  hide 
its  agonized  expression,  striving  to  reply  calmly  to 
his  question,  as  to  what  had  caused  the  exclama- 
tion. 

"  That  lady  startled  me  as  she  mounted  that  fiery 
horse.    She  is  daring!" 

Theodore  looked  out  with  interest,  accepting  the 
explanation  as  the  whole  cause,  and  smiling  at  her 
fright. 

"  How  timid  you  women  are,"  he  said,  "  that  is,  as 
a  general  thing.  This  lady  appears  to  be  an  excep- 
tion. By  the  way,  she  sits  that  animal  well.  He  is 
of  good  mettle.  See  how  he  paws  the  ground  with 
his  impatient  hoofs,  and  tosses  his  mane  angrily  to 
one  side,  while  she  sits  unconscious  of  his  wrath. 
A  beautiful  creature^    By  Jupiter !    I  scarcely  know 


280 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


which  is  most  magnificent — the  horse  or  his  fair  young 
rider !" 

Ora's  heart  heaved  a  heavy  throb  of  dull,  stinging 
pain.  Ellen,  attracted  by  her  brother's  exclamations 
of  admiration,  joined  them  at  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out. 

The  groom  had  led  up  a  number  of  horses,  and 
one  lady  was  mounted.  A  group  of  gentlemen  were 
near,  equipped  for  mounting  also,  as  soon  as  their 
ladies  should  be  safely  placed  in  the  saddle.  One 
after  another  they  assumed  them,  the  lady  first  served 
holding  in  the  reins  steadily,  and  patiently  waiting, 
though  her  steed  champed  his  bit  and  moved  rest- 
lessly about.  Her  dark  green  habit  was  flowing 
gracefully  about  her,  the  white  feather  of  her  hat 
drooping  softly  over  her  crimsoned  cheeks.  Shining 
coils  of  raven  black  hair  fell  at  the  back  of  her  head, 
half  resting  upon  the  white  neck  it  adorned.  The 
very  embodiment  of  spirit  and  elegance  she  appeared. 
Theodore  had  eyes  only  for  her  beauty,  praising  her 
enthusiastically,  until  the  whole  mounted  party 
wheeled  and  dashed  away. 

Ora  turned  to  leave  the  windows,  but  Mr.  Raymond 
barred  her  exit.    He  looked  laughingly  in  her  face. 

I  declare,  you  are  pale  yet !  Who  would  have 
thought  you  so  nervous?" 

Hot,  crimson  waves  dyed  her  cheeks,  and  it  was 
on  her  lips  to  deny  that  she  had  been  frightened.  A 
moment's  reflection  sealed  her  answer,  however.  If 
.not  fright,  he  would  want  to  know  what  it  was  that 
had  paled  her  cheeks  and  dilated  the  pupils  of  her 
eye  in  that  fashion.    She  could  no\  answer  him,  so 


ORA,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  28.1 

she  must  let  him  believe  her  weak  and  timid  as  a 
child.  The  thought  was  galling — the  more  so  as  a 
quiet  glance  showed  the  light  smile  of  badinage 
replaced  by  a  half-contemptuous  curl  of  the  hand- 
some lips.  Resentment  rose  to  her  aid,  then.  With 
an  erect  head  and  firm  step,  she  passed  from  the 
room  to  her  own  chamber.  Then,  for  the  second 
time  after  looking  at  that  fair  young  face,  she  buried 
herself  among  the  pillows  of  the  couch  and  wept 
bitterly,  first  having  turned  the  key  of  her  door  to 
keep  out  chance  intruders. 

After  witnessing  Ora's  exit  with  his  slyly  mischiev- 
ous glance,  Theodore  turned  to  his  sister,  saying 
lightly : 

I  wonder  if  I  really  offended  Mrs.  Meredith  ?  I 
hope  not.  I  would  not  like  to  think  so,  for  she  is  a 
good,  gentle  creature.  But  tell  me,  Ellen,  why  are 
you  women  so  afraid  of  animals  ?  The  ^ight  of  a 
horse  or  a  cow  frightens  the  life  out  of  you." 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Ellen,  laughingly^ 
''I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Meredith  is  afraid  of  them.  I 
have  heard  her  express  fondness  for  animals,  and 
once  she  told  me  she  had  been  used  to  horseback 
exercise  in  her  childhood,and  even  after  she  grew  up 
had  ridden  frequently,  having  resided  in  the  country 
and  kept  horses." 

"  Then  why  did  she  turn  so  white  and  shake  like 
an  aspen  when  that  lady  mounted  her  '  mettled 
charger  V  I'm  inclined  to  the  belief  that  she's  a 
regular  little  coward.  Some  day  I'll  try  her  just  for 
the  fun  of  it.  By  the  way,  would  you  not  like  a  ride  on 
horseback,  Sis?    Seriously,  are  you  strong  enough 

24 


282 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  0,  I  would  like  it  very  much,  but  brother,  I  canH 
go." 

"Why  not?" 

"  There  are  several  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  we 
must  attract  no  unnecessary  attention." 

"We  need  not.  This  season,  equestrianism  is  too 
common  for  a  quiet  little  party  to  become  conspicu- 
ous. We  could  ride  out  without  any  one  dreaming 
who  you  are." 

"  Well,  even  were  that  so,  I  have  no  habit — neithei 
has  Mrs.  Meredith." 

"  A  woman's  excuse,  but  easily  remedied.  You 
can  hire  one." 

"  0  brother !  one  anybody  can  wear  for  the  asking  ? 
No,  I  couldn't  do  that !" 

"  Why,  you  fastidious  little  puss  !  Why  are  you 
so  particular  ?" 

"  They  would  not  fit  us,  even  were  they  nice  ?" 
returned  Ellen.  "  I  think  we  will  not  discuss  the 
matter  further." 

"But,"  urged  the  brother  pleasantly,  "I  should 
really  like  to  take  you  before  father  and  mother  get 
here.  Have  you  no  tight-fitting  jackets  you  could 
wear  with  a  skirt  ?" 

Ellen  mused  a  moment. 

"Yes,  you  managed  to  get  hold  of  a  portion  of  my 
winter  wardrobe  when  you  made  that  foraging  expe- 
dition on  my  account.  There  is  a  bottle  green 
waist  of  cloth,  and  a  black  velvet  basque  in  my 
trunk.    But  of  what  use  can  they  be  without  skirts  P 

"None,  that  I  know.  But  skirts  can  be  made. 
Wl'.ere  are  the  waists  ?" 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


283 


«  I  will  get  them." 

Ellen  went  into  her  chamber  and  in  a  few  minutes 
came  back  with  the  articles  in  question. 

"  Your  dresses  fit  Mrs.  Meredith,  do  they  not  ^"  was 
his  next  question. 

"Yes,  pretty  nearly." 

"  Then  its  settled !  I'll  go  and  buy  stuflf  to  match 
these  articles  in  color,  and  the  maid  shall  sew  them 
up  for  you  this  afternoon.  It  will  not  take  long,  and 
you  can  have  your  ride  to-morrow  morning." 

"  But,  brother—"  She  was  not  allowed  to  remon- 
strate, however.  He  siezed  her  little  pale  face  in 
his  hands,  and  holding  it  up,  kissed  the  pretty  hps 
heartily  and  ran  away.  Her  laughing  conclusion  oi 
the  interrupted  sentence  followed  him  : 

"  I  think  it  was  a  great  mistake  you  were  not  a 
woman.  I  am  sure,"  she  added  to^herself, "  you  excel 
me  in  devising  '  ways  and  means.'  " 

Theodore  soon  returned,  followed  by  a  boy  with  a 
parcel.  In  a  very  easy,  matter  of-fact  way,  he  gave 
necessary  orders  about  the  making,  very  much  to 
Ellen's  amusement,  and  after  seeing  the  skirts  fairly 
begun,  sauntered  off  to  enjoy  his  cigar. 

As  he  went  out,  Ellen  determined  to  strive  to 
conciliate  Ora,  and  accordingly  tapped  lightly  on  her 
door.  There  was  no  answer.'  She  knocked  again, 
and  this  time  hearing  no  reply,  went  away  quite 
serious. 

«  You  have  done  mischief,  I  fear,"  she  said 
apprehensively,  as  Theodore  returned  to  prepare  for 
dinner. 

«  How  ?" 


284 


ORAj   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  Mrs.  Meredith  has  not  yet  made  her  appearance, 
and  refuses  to  answer  my  raps  at  her  door." 

Theodore  looked  half-disturbed. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  mean  to  offend  her.  I  hope  I 
have  not,  seriously." 

Singularly  enough,  Ora  in  her  quiet  dignity  and 
innate  refinement,  had  won  upon  their  feelings  and 
respect,  in  spite  of  the  disadvantages  under  which 
Mr.  Raymond  had  found  her.  The  thought  of  having 
hurt  or  offended  her,  made  both  unhappy.  They 
waited  impatiently  for  her  to  show  herself. 

She  came  at  length,  very  pale,  but  calm  and  gentle 
as  usuaL  Her  manner  ignored  the  little  event  of 
the  morning.  Had  she  shown  in  the  slightest  degree 
a  remembrance  of  it,  Theodore  would  have  hastened 
to  apologize  and  restore  their  usual  happy  flow  of 
feeling  and  intercourse.  As  it  was,  he  could  not 
approach  her.  He  saw  her  determined  to  let  it  pass. 
Ellen,  more  impulsive,  broke  forth  regretfully : 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Meredith,  I  hope  you  will  forget 
brother's  thoughtlessness.  He  didn't  mean  to  offend 
you.    We  are  so  sorry  !" 

"Sorry,  my  dear?  for  what?" 

Ora's  eyes  looked  genuine  surprise,  as  she  replied 
in  her  soft,  gentle  tones,  "you  have  nothing  to 
apologize  for." 

"  Except  my  rudeness  to  you  this  morning,"  said 
Theodore,  frankly.  "I  beg  you  will  forgive  me,  Mrs. 
Meredith." 

"I  remember  nothing  against  you,"  returned  Ora. 
"  I  never  thought  of  feeling  offended." 

"Then  why  shut  yourself  pertinaciously  in  youi 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


285 


room  all  day,  and  refuse  all  company  he  said 
bluntly. 

Ora's  face  crimsoned. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  well  to-day,  and 
something  weighs  upon  my  spirits.  I  was  scarcely 
fit  for  society,  and  feeling  it,  withdrew." 

Her  look  and  tone  silenced  him.  He  had  no  right 
to  ask  the  cause  of  the  weight  upon  her  spirits. 
Having  disclaimed  feeling  oJQfended  with  him,  he 
must  accept  her  explanation  without  further  words, 
but  he  was  puzzled  and  dissatisfied.  The  feeling  of 
wonder  and  displeasure  deepened  when  the  contem- 
plated ride  was  broached,  and  Ora  protested  strongly 
against  it.  She  should  be  pleased  to  see  them  go, 
but  she  did  not  feel  inclined  to  accompany  them. 

"  Indeed  you  must  go.  Brother  got  it  up  chiefly 
on  your  account,  I  know,"  said  Ellen,  earnestly. 
Opposition  made  both  enthusiastic.  She  now  wished 
it  as  much  as  Theodore  could.    Ora  smiled. 

"  Why  should  he  be  anxious  that  I  should  go  ?  To 
see  if  I  am  afraid  of  horses?    I  am  not  timid." 

Prove  it  then  by  going  with  us  to-morrow,"  he 
answered,  glancing  at  her  face  to  note  its  changes. 
The  color  again  rose  to  her  cheeks.  The  repugnance 
to  this  public  airing  amounted  almost  to  pain,  and 
still  more  and  more  puzzled  to  understand  her  appar- 
ently groundless  opposition  and  varying  color,  he 
made  the  care  of  Ellen  a  necessity  for  her  presence, 
in  case  she  should  get  fatigued  and  faint.  Seeing  it 
useless  to  contend,  she  at  last  yielded  a  quiet  conces- 
sion to  their  wishes,  and  with  her  promise  to  go,  the 
subject  dropped. 


286 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


The  space  of  time  intervening  was  one  of  per- 
plexity and  anxiety  to  Ora.  Might  she  not  meet  A^r, 
if  she  ventured  beyond  her  room.  Might  not  he  be 
there,  and  if  so,  might  she  not  come  in  contact  with 
him  ?  Since  the  first  night  on  which  the  discovery 
was  made  of  her  presence,  she  had  been  more 
careful  than  ever,  never  daring  to  leave  her  room  or 
put  her  foot  beyond  the  floor  that  contained  their 
suite.  The  question  of  his  presence,  she  would  have 
given  worlds  to  solve,  but  she  dared  not  attempt  it. 
With  no  confidant  to  aid  her,  and  her  fears  of  making 
herself  known,  she  was  completely  barred  from  all 
means  of  gaining  the  desired  information. 

Once,  before  that  morning,  she  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  lady  of  the  green  habit,  and  her  mind 
had  been  distracted  by  the  questions  that  rose.  She 
must  not  put  herself  forward  to  see — she  dared  not 
trust  herself  to  meet  her  and  ascertain  who  was  with 
her,  or  anything  more  concerning  her,  than  the  simple 
fact  that  she  was  there — evidently  a  favored,  courted 
belle.  If  he  was  near,  he  kept  himself  closely 
secluded,  yet  she  rather  inclined  to  the  belief  that  he 
was  not  with  her.  Would  he  come  ?  Where  was  he 
now?  Would  Fate,  strange,  capricious  and  cruel, 
cross  their  paths  once  more  !  She  clasped  her  hands 
in  agony.  "  Oh !  Heaven  forbid  !  spare  me  this 
last  trial !" 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

The  morning  chosen  for  the  riding  excursion 
dawned  bright  and  clear.  The  fresh  air  was  redolent 
with  perfume ;  the  merry  birds  twittering  a  glad 
welcome  to  the  new  day.  Theodore  rose  by  sunrise 
and  sauntered  out  for  a  walk,  while  the  ladies,  after 
a  light  breakfast,  were  preparing  for  the  ride.  They 
proposed  going  some  distance  into  the  country, 
halting  for  rest  and  lunch,  rambling  through  the 
woods  till  weary,  and  returning  in  the  cool  part  of 
the  evening.  He  w^as  anticipating  much  pleasure, 
as  he  looked  abroad.  He  remembered  how  childishly 
fond  Ellen  was  of  her  freedom,  and  longed  to  see  the 
dancing  light  of  her  dark  eyes,  and  the  color  once 
more  glowing  in  her  pale  cheeks,  as  of  old.  If  he 
had  other  motives,  they  were  not  predominant  on 
this  morning,  until  a  little  incident  made  them  so. 

As  he  strolled  leisurely  away  enjoying  his  cigar 
and  the  balmy  morning  air,  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road 
brought  him  face  to  face  with  two  gentlemen  with 
whom  he  had  become  slightly  acquainted  since  his 
arrival.  Both  lifted  their  hats  politely,  suspending 
an  animated  conversation  as  he  approached  them, 
and  greeting  him  pleasantly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Raymond,"  said 
one  of  them  in  a  cordial,  easy  way.  "  We  are  going 
to  have  some  fine  sport  to-day,  and  tvould  like  you  to 
(287) 


288 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


join  us.  It  is  to  be  a  ride — a  picnic  in  the  grove, 
and  retui  n  home  by  moonlight.  We  shall  have  music 
and  the  most  delightful  society  of  Saratoga.  The 
young  Richmond  belle  makes  one  of  the  party.  Will 
you  go 

"  Surely,  if  it  were  possible,  I  have  inducements 
enough  oJQfered  me,"  smiled  Theodore.  "  I  should 
like  to  join  you,  but  I  h^ve  an  engagement  to  ride 
with  a  couple  of  ladies  to-day,  one  of  whom  is  an 
invalid,  and  I  fear  unable  to  bear  much  fatigue.  I 
thank  you,  but  1  must  decline." 

"  0,  do  not  do  so,"  put  in  the  other  gentleman. 
"There is  no  necessity  of  declining  on  those  grounds. 
Take  your  ladies  with  you  by  all  means,  and  if  the 
delicate  one  should  need  rest,  leave  her  for  an  hour 
or  two  at  the  farm  house  close  by.  With  the  second, 
you  can  join  us  for  a  little  while  and  have  fine 
sport." 

Theodore  thought  a  moment,  and  decided  after  a 
•question. 
"  What  time  do  you  start  ?" 
"  At  ten." 

"  Then  I  will  join  you  after  you  get  there.  I  shall 
start  much  earlier  to  get  the  benefit  of  the- morning's 
freshness.  It  will  be  less  fatiguing:  You  may  count 
on  seeing  me  for  a  short  time  at  least,  among  you." 

"  Very  well,  sir ;  shall  be  most  happy.  I  wish  you 
a  pleasant  ride.    Good  morning." 

Both  gentlemen  lifted  their  hats,  and  separated. 
Theodore  took  another  turn  through  the  grounds,  and 
then  bent  his  steps  back  to  his  hotel. 

"The  Richmond  belle,"  he  mused  as  he  sauntered 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


289 


on.  Doubtless  that  is  the  sparkling  little  lady  of  the 
Green  Habit.  I  will  get  an  introduction  to  her  if  it  is!" 

Suddenly  another  thought  struck  him.  He  laughed 
a  little  to  himself  as  he  indulged  it. 

"  It  will  be  interesting  to  see  what  Mrs.  Mercdilh 
will  do  if  I  can  bring  about  a  meeting  without  much 
danger.  I  would  really  like  to  know  what  the 
mystery  is  that  lies  in  that  quarter,  for  a  mystery 
there  is,  I  am  certain." 

Ellen  and  Ora  were  ready  when  he  reached  the 
house,  and  the  groom  was  waiting  his  orders  to  lead 
up  the  horses.  Ellen  mounted  first,  gleeful  and 
happy  as  a  child  to  find  herself  once  more  able  to 
go  out.  Ora  descended  the  steps  slowly,  I'eluctantly, 
glancing  round  to  see  if  strange  eyes  were  observing 
her.  Mr.  Raymond  noticed  it,  and  mentally  won- 
dered whether  she  feared  being  seen  because  of 
inexperience  in  riding,  or  because  she  wished  to 
avoid  observation  from  other  motives.  He  smiled  a 
little  doubtfully  as  she  approached  her  horse  with  a 
shy,  half  shrinking  manner.  She  caught  the  glance 
and  read  it  instantly,  but  betrayed  no  knowledge 
of  the  fact  by  a  single  look.  Advancing  quietly,  she 
took  the  reins  in  her  right  hand,  and  with  them, 
placed  it  on  the  saddle,  catching  her  habit  lightly  up 
with  the  left.  She  did  not  hesitate  when  he  held 
out  his  hand,  but  placing  her  little  foot  in  his  palm, 
mounted  quickly  and  easily. 

Mr.  Eaymond's  eyes  lighted  with  admiration  not 
unmixed  with  surprise,  but  quietly  arranged  her 
dress  as  she  took  the  mane  with  her  left  hand  and 
lifted  herself  in  the  saddle  for  the  purpose.  The 

25 


290 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


next  moment  lie  had  vaulted  into  the  saddle  himself, 
and  they  started  in  nice  order. 

Ora  sat  her  horse  well.  Ellen  and  her  brother 
silently  and  admiringly  acknowledged  the  exceeding 
grace  of  her  slender  figure,  set  oS  by  the  close  fitting 
black  habit.  She  had  never  in  her  life  appeared  so 
well  to  them — never  looked  more  the  lady — well 
bred,  elegant  and  accomplished,  than  she  did  at  that 
mornent. 

Ellen's  spirits  rose  as  the  warm  blood  in  her  veins 
began  to  circulate  with  the  exercise.  She  rode 
fearlessly  and  rapidly  in  the  face  of  her  brother's 
entreaties  to  spare  her  strength.  With  a  gay,  laugh- 
ing reply,  she  dashed  on,  they  following. 

Ora's  thick  veil  was  down,  and  concealed  her 
features ;  but  Mr.  Eaymond  knew  by  instinct  that  she 
was  as  joyous  as  his  sister,  though  more  quiet.  He 
was  musing  upon  what  was  to  come.  The  test  of 
her  horsemanship  had  proved  satisfactory.  She  had 
not  declined  from  fear  or  inexperience.  He  at  once 
concluded  that  it  was  the  fear  of  meeting  the  strange 
lady  whose  face  had  been  sufficient  to  drive  all  color 
from  her  face  the  moment  her  eyes  rested  on  her. 
He  was  thinking  of  her  cry  of  astonishment,  her 
livid  lips,  and  her  seclusion  for  hours  on  the  day 
previous,  and  surmised  rightly  that  no  ordinary 
circumstances  could  have  produced  such  an  effect. 
His  interest  grew  upon  him  as  he  pondered  the 
matter,  grew  and  deepened  because  of  the  hold  she 
had  taken  upon  his  mind.  Young,  beautiful,  highly 
accomplished,  and  yet  enveloped  in  mystery  as  to 
her  past;  preserving  a  rigid  silence  on  all  that 


ORA,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  291 


pertained  to  her  previous  history,  you  will  not  wonder, 
if  Mr.  JRaymond's  curiousity  got  the  better  of  hinri, 
and  his  more  noble  and  generous  feelings  were  sub- 
merged in  the  desire  to  know  what  she  had  refused 
to  tell  him.  He  argued  that  he  had  a  right  to  know 
who  his  sister's  companion  and  friend  was.  A  lady 
she  had  ever  been;  that  he  acknowledged.  A 
thought  of  evil  in  connection  with  her,  returned  to 
him,  glancing  from  her  purity  and  innate  dignity,  as 
shafts  from  a  bright  surface  of  steel. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Raymond  had  no  right  now  to  think 
and  plan  a  revelation,  after  acting  upon  his  impulsive 
feelings  and  taking  her  unquestioned  into  his  service 
and  his  confidence,  from  the  midst  of  unfavorable 
circumstances.  Had  he  cared  less  for  her,  still 
possessing  the  respect  she  inspired,  he  would  have 
gone  on  quietly,  suJBTering  her  to  keep  her  own 
secrets  unmolested  or  disturbed,  within  her  own 
bosom.  As  it  was,  he  grew  daily  more  interested  in 
her  singular,  yet  beautiful  character,  and  as  its 
originality  and  depth  became  apparent,  he  found 
himself  studying,  comparing  her  with  others ;  puz- 
zling over  her  history,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  lose 
himself  in  the  growing  and  absorbing  interest  of  his 
observation  and  speculation. 

How  singular  that  he,  like  another,  should  thus 
think  and  plan  against  her.  Different  feelings  were 
the  mainspring  of  action,  yet  the  result  must  be  the 
same.  Harry  Clifton  had  thus  thought,  plotted,  and 
exposed  her  in  the  end;  Theodore  Raymond  was  fol- 
lowing in  his  wake,  only  to  meet  a  like  fate,  and  find 
out  too  late  that  he,  had  worked  out  his  own  misery. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

FoxjB  hours  later,  Ellen  found  herself  comfortably 
settled  on  a  lounge  in  a  farm  house,  after  having  run 
about  till  she  was  tired.  Theodore  laid  peremptory 
commands  on  her,  and  after  quaffing  a  glass  of  the 
housewife's  cool  sweet  milk,  she  prepared  for  a  sleep 
and  rest. 

Ora  proposed  to  remain  beside  her,  but  both  of  them 
vetoed  the  proposal  instantly.  Mr.  Raymond  must 
have  a  companion  in  his  further  rambles,  and  Ellen 
could  not  sleep  if  he  or  she  were  deprived  of  any 
.enjoyment  that  was  to  be  obtained.  So,  overruled  by 
the  majority,  she  readily  donned  her  hat  and  started 
forth. 

Their  path  led  through  green  meadows  into  the 
forest,  whither  Theodore  bent  his  steps  in  search  of 
the  picnic  party.  Ora  tossed  back  her  veil  as  they 
entered  beneath  the  shade  of  the  trees,  and  walked 
on  with  a  quick,  elastic  step.  Something  in  the  scene 
roused  old  remembrances.  Her  color  rose ;  her  lips 
quivered.  She  forgot  her  quiet  reserve,  and  became 
almost  as  enthusiastic  as  Ellen  had  been. 

Dear  old  woods  !"  she  cried  as  she  gazed  around 
her.  "How  ye  remind  me  of  old,  familiar  scenes 
of  my  childhood  !  Many  a  day  I  have  rambled  over 
rock  and  brook,  revelling  in  the  wild  feeling  of  freedom 

with  Nature,  as  now.    Do  you  know,  Mr.  Raymond,  I 
(292) 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


293 


feel  like  a  different  being  just  now  1  I  have  loft  niy 
old  self  behind  me.  I  am  just  as  you  miglit  have 
found  me  years  ago,  when  the  woods  were  my  daily 
companions  !" 

Then  you  love  Nature  ?" 

"As  a  mother,  I  love  her!"  was  the  fervent  reply. 

"  Has  it  been  long  since  you  were  in  the  forest — 
lince  you  enjoyed  a  scene  like  this  ?" 

"  Very  long." 

Her  head  half  drooped  with  her  answer.  Sadness 
A^as  mixed  deeply  with  the  joy  it  called  up.  It  has 
Deen  five  or  six  years.  Life's  duties  in  that  time  have 
been  rigid.  The  hot,  teeming  city  claimed  me  her 
servant,  and  my  work  might  not  be  abandoned.  I  am 
glad  to  come  out  again  into  the  world  of  space,  where 
thought  and  pleasure  can  walk  hand  in  hand  peace- 
fully.   Oh  !  I  am  glad  !  " 

They  had  reached  a  little  dell  where  a  brook  ran 
bubbling  and  splashing  over  the  stones.  Ora  threw 
herself  down  upon  a  mossy  rock,  nestling  with  loving 
joy  against  the  giant  body  of  a  grand  old  oak,  as  she 
would  have  nestled  against  the  bosom  of  a  mother. 
She  threw  down  her  hat,  suffering  the  breeze  to  fan 
her  brow  at  will,-  and  drawing  her  glove  from  her 
hand,  idly  dipped  the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  the  spark- 
ling water.  Theodore  sat  down  near  her,  commanding 
by  her  position,  a  full  view  of  her  face.  ,  She  appeared 
to  him  in  a  new  light  to-day.  Happiness,  tinged  even 
with  sadness  as  it  was,  gave  her  a  different  aspect. 
The  picture  he  contemplated  was  fascinating.  He 
became  complimentary  and  poetical. 

"  What  a  subject  for  an  artist !"  he  exclaimed.    "  If 


294 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


one  were  near,  he  might  make  his  name  and  fortune 
sure,  if  he  were  only  skillful  enough  to  give  life  to 
the  work  of  art  as  I  see  it  at  this  moment  in  nature ! 
Tou  should  see  yourself  as  I  see  you,  Mrs.  Meredith — " 
Ora  laughed  lightlj^,  interrupting  him. 

" '  0,  wad  some  power  o*  giftie  gie  us. 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us/  " 

she  quoted.      Is  it  not  apropos^  Mr.  Raymond?" 

He  continued  as  if  he  had  not  been  interrupted, 
"  you  would  be  charmed  with  yourself.  Enjoyment 
has  made  your  eyes  bright  as  stars.  There  is  a  light 
and  depth  in  them  I  have  never  seen  before.  It  was 
as  if  a  cloud  had  rolled  away  and  left  revealed  the 
bright  Star  of  Evening,  to  shine  out  in  deep  and 
intense  lustre  upon  the  world.  Your  lips  are  like  the 
scarlet — your  cheeks  wear  the  blush  of  the  June  rose. 
On  one  side,  that  tree  forms  a  splendid  back  ground 
for  your  face.  Its  rough  bark  and  dark  color  are  suffi- 
cient contrast  to  the  smooth  fairness  of  your  cheek; 
then  there  is  a  witching  wildness  in  your  hair,  one  side 
of  which  has  fallen  over  your  neck  and  shoulder,  lying 
like  spiral  threads  of  light  over  you,  for  a  stray  gleam 
of  sunlight  is  playing  fantastically  over  them.  You 
have  no  idea  what  a'fine  picture  you  would  make. 
Were  it  painted,  people  would  say  it  was  too  beauti- 
ful to  be  natural.    They  would  call  it  a  fancy  sketch." 

"As  if  Nature  were  not  more  beautiful  than  Art!" 
exclaimed  Ora,  with  deepening  color.  In  my 
opinion,  Mr.  Raymond,  no  artist  ever  reached  the 
perfection  of  his  art  so  nearly,  as  when  ha  cc^^nr 
Nature  most  closely." 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


295 


"  Then  you,  at  least,  would  acknowledge  the  justice 
of  my  verbal  sketch  ?"  he  laughed  jestingly. 
"Nonsense  !" 

She  laughed  also,  but  the  color  mounted  more 
vividly.  "  You  are  laughing  at  me  now,  Mr.  Ray- 
mond. 

"Indeed-Iam  not,"  he  replied  quickly,  dropping 
his  light  tone  and  becoming  more  earnest.  "  I  should 
not  take  such  a  liberty,  I  assure  you." 

Ora  pulled  up  little  tufts  of  moss  and  idly  tossed 
them  into  the  stream  whose  bright  rippling  waves 
whirled  them  away  swiftly.  Already  she  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  less  joyous  under  the  gaze  he  bent  upon 
her.  The  same  expression  she  had  seen  upon  it  once 
b'efore  as  they  stood  upon  the  steps  in  the  city,  was 
upon  it  now,  and  the  same  feelings  of  disturbance — 
a  vague,  undefined  dread — began  to  steal  over  her. 
She  wished  Ellen  had  been  with  her,  or  that  she  was 
back  at  the  house.  Perhaps  Theodore  divined  the 
cause  of  the  shade  of  -  gravity  that  had  come  over  her 
features,  and  sought  to  dispel  it,  for  he  sprang  up  and 
began  to  break  off  branches  of  evergreen  and  pluck 
wild  jlowers, ostensibly  to  carry  back  to  his  sister. 

"  Give,  them  to  me  as  you  gather  them,  and  I  will 
twine  them  into  a  wreath,"  she  said,  glad  to  be  free 
from  his  earnest  gaze. 

He  did  as  requested,  and  while  he  roamed  about  in 
search  of  the  brightest  flowers  to  be  found,  she  wrought 
them  skillfully  into  a  wreath,  pausing  now  and  then 
to  look  about  her  and  enjoy  the  scene.  A  sense  of 
deep  happiness  grew  up  in  her  heart.  The  twitter  of 
the  birds,  the  faint  rrastle  of  the  breeze  in  the  leaves, 


296 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


the  pnrl  and  splash  of  the  brook,  the  mossy  stones, 
the  scrubby  undergrowth — all  carried  her  back  to  a 
time  when  suffering  had  as  yet  laid  no  hand  upon 
her  fair  young  life.  She  was  too  busy  with  her  own 
pleasant  thoughts  to  heed  her  companion,  who,  a 
little  distance  from  her,  had  suddenly  paused  to  listen. 
In  a  moment  a  gentleman's  head  appeared  just  above 
the  brow  of  a  little  hill  above  him.  He  came  forward, 
parting  the  bushes  carefully,  a  lady  following,  her 
lips  wreathed  in  smiles.  Theodore's  face  assumed  an 
expression  of  astonishment,  and  he  whistled  unde. 
his  breath — 

Luck !  by  all  that's  funny  !"  he  muttered.  "  Now 
for  it.    Let's  see  what  is  coming." 

He  turned  and  walked  a  few  paces  toward  Ora, 
pausing  behind  a  pile  of  stones  that  served  to  screen 
him  partially  from  view.  He  wished  only  to  see  her 
face  when  the  lady  came  up,  that  he  might  set  all 
doubts  at  rest.    Did  she  know  her?    He  must  see. 

The  lady  and  gentleman  were  coming  on  steadily, 
laughing  and  talking  easily  as  they  advanced.  The 
sounds  caught  Ora's  ears,  and  she  hastily  turned  to 
observe  who  was  near.  She  did  not  appear  embar- 
rassed, but  settled  herself  back  in  her  place  calmly, 
and  drooped  her  head  slightly  over  her  work.  She 
evidently  meant  to  let  them  pass  without  further 
notice. 

That,  however,  soon  became  impossible.  The  gen- 
tleman stopped  and  she  heard  him  say  something  in 
a  low  tone  to  his  companion.  Involuntarily  she  raised 
her  eyes,  and  as  she  did  so,  the  stranger  turned  her 
head.    Their  eyes  met.    A  rapid  glance  showed  both 


ORA,    THE    LOST  "^IFE. 


297 


faces  pallid  as  marble.  Theodore  never  forgot  the 
agoDy  and  intensity  of  Ora's  blue  orbs,  or  the  terrified 
stare  of  the  black  ones  she  encountered.  The  recogni- 
tion had  been  mutual,  and  evidently  painful  to  both. 

The  young  man's .  heart  throbbed  heavily.  In  a 
moment,  a  sense  of  utter  shame  for  the  feelings  that 
had  prompted  him,  and  wretchedness  he  could  not 
understand,  had  taken  possession  of  him.  He  at  once 
turned  his  back  upon  them  and  began  breaking  off 
some  laurel  branches  to  cover  his  late  occupation  as 
spy  upon  the  lady  whom  he  had  taken  under  his 
care  and  protection. 

The  strangers  passed  on,  and  were  soon  lost  to 
sight.  No  word  had  escaped  either.  Only  for  that 
one  glance,  he  might  have  been  just  as  much  in  the 
dark  as  before.  That  had  spoken  volumes.  His 
surmises  were  more  than  verified.  But  what  they 
had  been  to  each  other,  and  the  mystery  between  them, 
he  was  yet  to  learn. 

Ora  lifted  one  quick,  searching  glance  to  his  face 
as  he  came  back  to  her.  Had  he  seen  the  glance! 
His  face  said  nothing,  and  her  eyes  fell  to  the  ground. 
She  was  deadly  pale,  and  her  hands  shook  violently. 

"I  am  afraid  these  people  have  startled  you  with 
their  sudden* appearance,"  he  remarked.  ''You  are 
nervous." 

"  You  saw  them  ?"  she  said,  striving  to  appear  calm. 

"  Yes,  I  was  only  a  little  way  off.  That  was  the 
Richmond  Belle  everybody  is  raving  about — and  the 
lady  who  rides  so  splendidly.  I  shall  seek  an  intro- 
duction some  time  soon.    She  is  beautiful." 

He  could  not  forbear  this  last  remark,  and  her  quick 


298 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


gesture  of  alarm  or  pain,  answered  to  his  expectation. 
But  she  forbore  comments.  With  a  look  of  unutter- 
able wretchedness,  she  arose  and  said  wearily: 

"I  am  tired.    Let  us  go  back." 

They  retraced  their  steps  slowly.  She  knew  by  his 
silence,  that  ho  had  penetrated  her  secret.  Had  ho 
not  divined  the  recognition,  he  would  have  bantered 
her  upon  her  nervousness.  But  his  ready  acquies- 
cence to  her  wishes,  and  grave  demeanor,  proved  that 
his  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  he  was  pondering: 
the  matter  silently. 

They  did  not  join  the  picnic  party.  Finding  Elle» 
awake  and  willing  to  return,  they  accordingly  mounted 
and  rode  back  home  leisurely. 

Ellen  was  full  of  life  and  spirit,  and  rattled  on  of 
everything  she  had  seen  and  enjoyed.  Theodore 
roused  himself  to  meet  her  advances,  and  they  chatted 
gaily.  Ora's  silence  excited  no  attention  from  the 
young  girl.  She  was  always  quiet ;  and  so  they 
arrived  at  their  hotel  at  length,  without  her  ever 
having  uttered  a  word  since  they  started. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


Ellen  and  her  companion  had  scarcely  reached 
their  rooms,  ere  Theodore  came  running  into  the 
parlor. 

"Father  and  mother  have  come,"  he  said  breath- 
lessly. "They  came  about  an  hour  ago,  and  have  not 
left  the  room  since.  They  sent  for  me,  but  Mr.  P — • 
told  them  I  was  out  somewfiere.  I  hope  they  did  not 
see  us  as  we  rode  up  the  street." 

"Oh,  my  heart  will  break!"  Ellen  sank  upon  a 
chair,  pale  and  panting,  clasping  both  hands  over 
her  bosom.  "I  wish  I  had  not  come  here!  What 
shall  I  do?" 

"  Only  keep  your  room  and  do  not  venture  out  of 
it  till  they  leave.  Courage,  little  sister.  All  will  go 
well  j^et." 

"  Ah,  but  it  seems  so  hard  !  Hiding  like  a  crimi- 
nal from  my  parents'  sight — hateful  to  their  eyes  as 
though  the  blackest  of  sin  tainted  me.  Oh,  mother, 
dear  mother !    I  cannot  bear  it !" 

"  See  here,  Ellen,  this  will  not  do,"  began  Theodore, 
gravely,  seating  himself  beside  her  and  drawing  her 
close  to  his  bosom.  "Trust  to  your  brother,  whose 
love  for,  and  desire  to  protect  you,  is  the  sole  aim  and 
virtue  of  his  life.  I  know  it  is  hard,  but  you  can  - 
bear  it,  Ellen — can  and  must.  Tou  must  never 
attempt  to  see  them.  If  bv  accident  they  should  get 
(299) 


300 


ORA,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


sight  ;f  you,  the  hopes  I  have  so  long  cherished  for 
both  are  at  an  end  forever.  We  know  too  well  the 
stern,  unrelenting  will  of  our  fatlier.  We  must  not 
brave  it,  or  all  is  lost.  Try  to  calm  yourself,  and  be 
patient,  I  beg." 

She  looked  up  tearfully.  • 
I  will  try  for  your  sake,  dear  Theodore,  but  if  you 
find  me  weak  and  childish  forgive  me.  Every  hour 
my  heart  yearns  more  and  more  for  my  mother,  and 
to  think  of  her  being  near  me — beneath  the  same 
roof,  and  I  forced  to  shut  myself  from  her  sight — 
never  hear  the  sound  of  her  voice  or  feel  even  for  a 
moment  the  clasp  of  her  arms  around  me,  breaks 
down  all  the  firmness  I  have.  Oh,  if  I  could  but  once 
have  her  gentle  hand  on  my  head,  and  hear  her  say 
as  she  used  to  do,  'God  bless  my  daughter,'  I  think 
I  could  bear  anything  then.  And  yet,  within  but  a 
few  yards  of  her,  this  may  not  be.  Oh!  brother! 
brother !" 

This  burst  of  feeling  soon  spent  itself,  and  she  grew 
more  reconciled  under  the  influence  of  Mr.  Raymond's 
hopeful,  hearty  words  of  comfort.  As  soon  as  he  saw 
her  quiet,  he  withdrew  to  seek  his  parents  and  wel- 
come them. 

He  found  his  father  lying  upon  the  bed,  pale  and 
feeble,  while  his  mother,  seated  by  him,  bathed  his 
head  with  a  reviving  spirit.  The  journey  had  been 
very  fatiguing,  and  he  was  worn  out. 

Mrs.  Raymond  rose  at  once,  and  threw  her  arms 
about  her  son's  neck  afiectionately.  Mr.  Raymond 
merely  held  out  his  hand  quietly. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  not  to  have  been  in  the  house  whon 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


301 


you  came,"  said  Theodore.  "I  hardly  expected  you 
before  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  How  did  you  bear 
traveling,  sir?" 

"Badly.  ■  I  am  used  up  entirely.  All  the  strength 
I  had  is  gone." 

"  You  need  rest,  sir.  In  a  little  while  you  will  feel 
better.    Are  you  tired,  mother  ?" 

"  No,  my  son ;  only  anxious.  Your  father  has  such 
bad  nights — so  little  sleep,  that  his  strength  is  failing 
him  in  consequence.  I  do  hope  the  air  here  will 
revive  him.    It  seems  pleasant." 

"  It  is  so,"  responded  Theodore.  Have  you 
made  up  your  mind  how  long  you  shall  stay,  father?" 

"No.  I  have  not  thought  much  about  it.  I 
suppose  we  will  remain  a  week  or  two  till  I  get  some 
strength.  I  cannot  travel  so.  I  had  no  idea  how 
weak  I  was  until  within  the  last  three  days." 

Theodore  sat  engaged  in  conversation  for  some 
time,  and  then  rising,  said  he  would  order  tea  in  their 
room.  He  remained  to  partake  of  the  meal  with  them, 
and  afterwards  insisted  upon  sitting  awhile  with  his 
father  until  his  mother  could  get  some  rest. 

Mr.  Eaymond  looked  gratified,  and  Mrs.  Raymond's 
eyes  filled  as  she  gently  patted  him  on  the  head. 

Kind,  good  boy.  What  should  we  do  without  our 
dear,  thoughtful  son  ?" 

Perhaps  a  thought  of  her  other  child,  so  near  her 
without  her  knowledge,  came  up  with  the  caress. 
Anyway,  her  pale,  gentle  face  grew  sadder,  and  the 
tears  in  her  eyes  dropped  silently  over  her  cheeks  as 
ft'.ie  turned  away. 

Theodore's  room  adjoined  that  of  his  parents,  and 


302 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


he  made  his  mother  go  into  it  and  lie  down  while  he 
made  his  father  comfortable  for  the  night. 

'^Oiie  would  think  you  are  used  to  nursing  from 
your  manner,"  said  Mr.  Raymond,  noting  his  readi- 
ness in  everything,  and  apparent  knowledge  of  all 
that  was  to  be  done. 

"And  so  I  am,"  thought  Theodore  but  he  said 
nothing. 

It  was  late  in  the  eyening  before  the  old  gentleman 
fell  asleep,  and  he  had  a  chance  to  slip  away  to  his 
sister.  She  overwhelmed  him  with  questions.  How 
were  they?  How  did  they  look  ?  Had  they  suspected 
anything  ?  What  had  they  said  ?  To  all  of  which 
questions  he  gave  distinct  and  literal  answers, 
patiently  and  kindly.  He  saw  that  she  was "  excited 
and  unhappy,  and  he  pitied  her  from  his  heart. 

After  a  little  while  he  rose  again. 

''Don't  feel  badly  if  I  cannot  *come  to  you  quite 
BO  much  as  I  would  wish.  I  will  find  chances  to 
run  in  and  tell  you  everything  that  happens,  and 
you  must  try  in  the  meantime  to  be  as  cheerful 
as  possible.  Mother  will  need  me  a  great  deal,  you 
know." 

"  How  I  wish  /  might  help  her,"  murmured  Ellen. 
"  Who  will  say  that  disobedience  does  not  bring  its 
own  consequences  ?  God  forgive  and  pity  me.  I  am 
the  most  miserable  and  wretched  of  children." 

"  There !  Do  not  reproach  yourself  uselessly. 
Good  night,  darling.  You  must  go  to  sleep  and  be 
bright  in  the  morning.  I  shall  be  in  to  see  you  the 
first  thing  I  do  Jifter  waking." 

He  kissed  her  tenderly  and  went  out.  Ellen 


ORAj    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


303 


listened  until  his  footsteps  died  away,  and  then  going 
into  her  chamber,  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

To  Ora  the  boon  would  not  come.  JMany  hours 
after  the  busy  hum  of  life  was  hushed  around  her, 
she  sat  by  her  window  in  the  pale  moonlight  and 
thought.  Shadows  once  more  were  thickening 
around  her  pathway.  Turn  where  she  would,  the 
clouds  rolled  darkly  over  her  way.  She  scarce  was 
made  to  feel  the  warmth  and  brightness  of  the  sun- 
shine, ere  it  was  obscured,  leaving  her  chilled  and 
more  dreary  to  grope  her  way  through  the  gloom. 

"Ah !  when,  and  in  what  will  it  all  end  ?  Better 
for  me  that  I  were  dead." 

Many  a  time  the  despairing  cry  had  risen  before. 
Bitterly  it  rose  now.  She  was  so  weary  of  struggling. 
Concealment  and  mystery  were  so  sickening.  Truth 
and  frankness  would  bring  upon  her  the  shame  and 
pity  of  a  wronged  and  neglected  wife — from  some, 
scorn  and  doubt.  Between  the  two  stinging  alterna- 
tives, how  could  she  choose  ?  It  was  a  hard  question. 
How  could  any  woman  answer  it,  and  feel  at  ease  in 
the  decision  she  made?  Both  were  painful.  She 
could  not  tell  which  was  less  painful  of  the  two. 

Thus  she  sat  long  and  silently,  pondering.  She 
was  not  the  only  one,  however,  who  could  not  sleep. 
Across  the  little  yard  in  the  wing  of  the  building,  she 
could  see  a  dim  light,  and  at  regular  intervals  a  slight 
form  pass  and  repass  the  window  with  a  monotonous 
tread.  She  wondered  sometimes  who  it  was,  and 
what  kept  the  watcher  up  so  late  at  night  in  that 
uneasy  walk.  Did  she  too  suffer  ?  Was  she  unhap- 
pily pondering  over  Some  dark  spots  in  her  life?  Ah, 


304 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


if  so,  God  pity  and  comfort  her,  even  as  she  would 
crave  His  pity  in  her  own  dark  hours. 

Ah  !  Ora  Meredith,  how  little  you  know  for  \vhom 
your  prayers  ascend  !  Could  you  but  look  into  that 
room  and  note  the  whiteness  of  that  dark  little  face — 
the  fierce  clench  of  the  small  hands,  and  the  angry, 
yet  deeply  suffering  light  of  the  black  eyes,  I  fear  your 
pity  wo 'lid  change  to  a  different  feeling.  But  God  is 
wise.  You  see  none  of  this.  He  drops  a  vail 
between  the  thoughts  of  His  children,  that  they  may 
not  read  the  warring  anger  of  each  other's  hearts ; 
and  so  the  flashing  eyes  and  clenched  hands  are  shut 
out  from  your  sight.  You  hear  neither  the  broken 
exclamations  or  angry  breathings.  When  she  pauses, 
you  do  not  know  that  her  rapid  fingers  are  tracing 
lines  all-important  in  the  thread  of  your  own  destiny, 
and  that  may  soon  change  the  whole  aspect  of  your 
life. 

And  yet,  who  knows  but  the  God  to  whom  that 
unconscious  prayer  was  breathed,  in  answer  to  it, 
prompted  those  lines  which  to-morrow's  mail  will  bear 
away,  like  a  white-winged  messenger  to  the  sunny 
South  I 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

The  short  space  of  a  few  days  brought  marked 
changes  to  our  little  party.  The  elder  Mr.  Eayinond. 
grew  seriously  ill,  and  the  physician  called  in  shook 
his  head  ominously  when  questioned  as  to  his  condi- 
tion. Being  a  strictly  conscientious  man,  he  would 
not  hold  out  hopes  that  might  not  be  realized.  He 
could  only  say  : 

It  is  serious,  and  will  require  the  best  of  nursing 
and  skill  to  save  him." 

More  than  this  he  avoided  uttering.  Theodore 
watched  faithfully  in  the  sick  room,  relieving  his 
mother  all  in  his  power ;  while  Ellen,  pale  and 
crushed,  sat  in  her  room  with  folded  hands,  resisting 
any  effort  of  her  nurse  to  rouse  and  cheer  her.  It 
was  well,  perhaps,  for  Ora,  that  this  state  of  Ellen's 
should  follow  the  painful  discovery  she  had  made, 
since  it  served  to  make  her  in  a  manner  forget  herself, 
and  devote  all  her  energies  to  other  purposes  than 
idle  breedings  and  vain  conjectures. 

And  yet  a  fearful  change  was  wrought  in  a  few 
davs.  Her  usually  pale  face  had  grown  of  a  marble 
whiteness,  while  the  features  so  lately  becoming  round 
and  full,  had  again  assumed  their  sharp  outlines, 
speaking  silently  of  suffering  and  care.  Her  eyes 
were  darker,  once  more  lighted  deeply  with  the  old 
spark  of  trouble  that  had  slumbered  in  their  depths, 
(305)  26 


306 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


I 


and  beneath  them,  black  circles  were  slowly  creeping. 
Had  not  the  friends  around  her  been  so  fully  occupied 
with  their  own  cares,  they  must  have  been  alarmed 
at  the  wondrous  transformation  of  those  few  days. 

One  evening  Theodore  came  in  looking  pale  and 
weary.  To  Ellen's  question  he  returned  the  usual 
reply,  "  No  better,"  and  shortly  after,  took  an  oppor- 
.jtunity  to  say  to  Ora  in  a  low  tone : 

^'I  shall  not  come  again  to-night.  Mother  is  worn 
out,  and  I  shall  stay  by  her.  The  end,  I  think,  is 
near.  Try  to  keep  Ellen  as  quiet  as  you  can,  and  do 
not  let  her  know  that  there  is  such  immediate  danger. 
Her  excitement,  I  fear,  would  make  her  either  ill, 
or  forgetful  of  prudence.  Persuade  her  to  retire 
early." 

You  will  send  me  word  if  anything  happens  ?" 
Yes,  good  night." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  a  slight  pressure 
showed  his  appreciation  of  her  faithfulness  and  sym- 
pathy. For  a  moment  his  eyes  rested  on  her  face, 
and  a  deep  sigh  escaped  him.  He  noted  the  change 
for  the  first  time,  and  her  uncomplaining  gentleness 
touched  his  heart.  He  said  nothing,  however,  and 
went  out  slowly,  after  a  few  words  to  his  sister. 

That  night,  near  one  o'clock,  a  light  tap  on  Ora's 
door  roused  her. 

"  Are  you  awake?"  asked  a  low  voice  outside. 

"  Yes.    Do  you  want  anything?" 

"  Get  up  and  dress  yourself,  quickly.    I  want  you." 

In  less  than  three  minutes,  she  came  out  and  stood 
beside  him. 

"My  father  is  dying,  I  fear,"  said  Theodore,  in 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


307 


low,  faltering  tones.  "But  do  not  say  anything. 
Come  with  me  to  his  apartment.  Mother  is  having 
fainting  fits,  and  I  can  do  nothing  alone.  I  need  your 
help  sadly." 

She  did  not  hesitate,  but  suffered  him  to  take  her 
hand  and  lead  her  out.  They  passed  rapidly  through 
the  dimly  lighted  hall  to  a  stairway  which  they 
ascended.  When  they  reached  the  door  above,  ho 
opened  a  door  on  the  right,  and  entered  a  large  room 
where  a  painful  picture  was  revealed. 

Ora  had  never  forgotten  the  stern  features  of  the  old 
minister.  The  inflexible  lines  of  his  hard  face  were 
as  stern  now  as  when  he  turned  her  helpless  from  his 
door.  He  was  thinner  and  paler,  but  the  same 
personage  was  there,  strongly  marked  and  inflexible, 
lying  with  half-closed  eyes  and  hand,  crossed  over  his 
breast,  shaken  with  agony,  and  moaning  piteously. 

Mrs.  Kaymond,  pale  and  weak,  lay  upon  the  sofa, 
weeping  silently,  and  kindly  attended  by  a  chamber- 
maid whom  Theodore  had  called  in  from  the  night 
watch,  while  he  went  for  Ora.  The  doctor  sat  near 
the  patient,  noting  every  change  carefully.  He  scarcely 
lifted  his  eyes  as  they  entered,  but  appeared  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  sufferer. 

A  fresh  burst  of  tears  greeted  Theodore's  return. 
The  poor  woman's  long  suffering  heart  was  sorely  tried 
in  this  hour. 

"  Oh,  if  he  would  only  remember  poor  Ellen  kindly 
at  last,"  she  whispered,  "  I  feel  as  if  I  could  bear  it 
better.  But  to  see  him  die  as  he  has  lived — silent  and 
unforgiving !" 

Theodore  turned  his  head  aside  quickly,  striving  to 


308  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


swallow  back  the  feeling  that  rose  rebellionsly  id  his 
throat  and  choked  his  utterance. 

"Ah!  where  is  she  now? — my  poor  wanderer !" 
she  murmured  again,  all  her  thoughts  centering  upon 
her  child.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  shall  go  wild  to  think  of 
her  far  away,  and  in  ignorance  of  the  change  so  fast 
approaching.  Oh,  I  am  sure  if  she  knew  this,  she 
would  hasten  to  her  mother.  She  was  always  loving 
and  kind-hearted — poor,  misguided  girl." 

"  Yes,  mother,  and  it  is  not  her  fault  she  is  not  here 
now,"  spoke  the  brother  earnestly.  "  Had  not  her 
name  been  a  forbidden  word  in  her  father's  house- 
hold, she  would  long  since  have  come  back  to  us,  and 
we  all  should  have  been  happier." 

The  mother  made  no  reply,  but  turned  her  face  to 
the  sofa  pillows  and  lay  still. 

Ora  sat  down  by  her,  gently  chafing  her  hands, 
while  Theodore  crossed  the  room  to  his  father's  side. 
A  fearful  paroxysm  of  pain  was  coming  on,  and  his 
groans  and  cries  were  becoming  each  moment  more 
terrible. 

As  the  cries  increased,  Mrs.  Raymond's  distress 
became  insupportable.  She  shuddered  feebly,  and  at 
last  with  a  low,  wailing  cry,  yielded  to  the  deadly 
fiiintness  that  crept  over  her.  She  scarcely  came  out 
of  one  fainting  fit  ere  she  sank  into  another,  and  Ora 
had  her  hands  full  to  attend  to  her. 

Between  the  two  the  devoted  son  divided  his  atten- 
tion. It  was  a  fearful  hour  for  him.  Sometimes  Ora 
would  lift  her  glance  to  his  face  to  see  how  he  bore  it, 
but  found  him  always  calm  and  steady,  though  she 
could  see  plainly  that  he  suffered.    His  father's  life 


^ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


309 


*vemed  fast  ebbing  away,  and  the  one  great  hope  lie 
had  cherished,  was  dying  out  with  the  sands  of  his 
life ;  and  as  his  hopes  faded,  a  settled  sadness  and 
quiet  gloom  fixed  itself  upon  his  features.  Poor  Ellen 
must  go  on  through  life,  broken-hearted  with  the 
memory  of  her  father's  unrelenting  anger. 

Thus  hours  passed,  bringing  no  relief  or  change. 
Airs.  Raymond  grew  worse,  if  anything,  and  now  the 
doctor  divided  his  time  between  the  husband  and 
wife.  The  long-continued  faints  were  becoming  criti- 
cal and  alarming.  Ora  thought  that  the  morning's 
sun  would  rise  upon  two  hearts  at  rest,  for  she  could 
not  hope  that  the  poor  woman  would  survive  her 
husband,  even  though  that  husband  had  been  cruel 
and  unrelenting. 

Once  when  Theodore  bent  over  his  mother,  Ora 
siezed  the  opportunity  to  whisper  a  request  in  his  ear. 
Her  heart  was  full.  She  could  no  longer  bear  to 
think  of  the  girl's  painful,  isolated  position.  All 
night  she  had  been  thinking  of  her. 

''Go  for  her,  Mr.  Raymond.  Do  bring  her  here," 
she  pleaded.  "  It  is  cruel  to  keep  her  away  now, 
when  Death  overshadows  both.  How  can  you  bear 
the  thought?" 

Theodore  began  to  tremble. 

''  Can  she  bear  it,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Better  than  to  be  left  there  alone  in  this  hour. 
Oh,  what  does  it  matter  to  them  now?  They  will  not 
be  affected  by  her  presence,  and  it  will  comfort  her  a 
little." 

Theodore  crossed  to  the  doctor  and  whispered  with 
him  a  moment,  and  then  went  out  hurriedly.  Ora's 


310  ORAj   THE   LOST  WIFE. 

heart  beat  fast.  She  felt  sure  he  had  gone  for  Ellen, 
and  now  that  he  had  gone,  she  began  to  fear  the  effect 
upon  her  of  this  painful  scene.  How  would  she  bear 
it  ?  '  Perhaps  her  strength  would  give  way  too,  and 
leave  her  helpless.  Perhaps  she  would  cry  out  in  her 
distress  and  alarm  the  house.  Every  possible  sugges- 
tion that  could  disturb  and  render  her  uneasy,  rose  in 
her  mind. 

Ten  minutes,  an  interminable  age  it  seemed,  elapsed 
before  they  came.  With  an  irrepressible  impulse, 
Ora  abandoned  her  post  and  hastened  to  meet  them 
before  they  could  advance  into  the  room,  and  threw 
her  arms  around  Ellen. 

^'Oh,  dear  Ellen,  do  be  calm  now,  for  Heaven's 
sake,"  she  murmured,  in  her  fear,  as  she  pressed  the 
shaking  form  to  her  bosom.  "Think  of  the  awful 
danger  to  yourself  and  them,  and  be  calm !" 

"  Do  not  fear,"  replied  the  poor  girl,  faintly.  "  I 
will  be  as  calm  as  any  one  here.  Theodore  would  not 
let  me  come  till  I  had  promised  him,  and  I  shall  not 
break  it,  even  though  my  heart  break  in  the  attempt 
to  crush  it  into  silence." 

She  verified  her  assertion  by  first  going  to  her 
m-other,  and  gently,  tenderly  kissing  her  pale  lips  and 
brow ;  lovingly  stroking  back  the  hair  from  her  face 
and  bestowing  every  mark  of  overweening  affection 
upon  her.  Tears  rained  silently  over  her  face,  but 
for  one  moment  she  did  not  forget  herself  or  utter  a 
cry. 

After  a  little  while  she  went  to  her  father  and  gazed 
earnestly  upon  his  features,  thinned  and  sharpened 
more  than  ever,  by  this  night's  suffering.    She  took 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


311 


his  hand  in  hers,  and  all  the  bettor  feelings  of  her 
heart  rising  with  that  touch,  she  fell  upon  her  knees 
by  the  bed,  uttering  one  little  sob,  breathing  one 
touching  prayer. 

"  Oh,  father,  do  not  die  till  you  hare  forgiven  your 
child!" 

The  appeal  went  to  every  heart.  The  doctor  turned 
his  face  aside  to  brush  away  his  tears  unseen.  Ora 
bowed  her  head  and  wept  freely,  while  Theodore, 
staunch  and  true  in  his  loyal  love,  knelt  by  his  sister, 
and  drew  her  within  his  arms. 

No  more  touching  picture  was  ever  seen. 

A  little  later,  the  sick  man  stirred  and  unclosed  his 
eyes.  After  the  paroxysm  of  which  we  have  spoken, 
he  had  fallen  into  a  stupor,  during  which  he  lay  as  one 
dead.  But  now  a  faint  spark  of  intelligence  shone  in 
his  eyes  as  they  wandered  round.  The  Doctor  stepped 
to  his  side,  touching  Theodore,  who  rose  and  stood  by 
him.  The  old  man's  eyes  rested  fixedly  upon  him,  with 
a  growing  sense  of  yearning  and  inquiry.  Now,  Ellen 
unable  longer  to  endure  the  suspense,  slowly  raised 
herself,  and  his  eyes  wandered  to  her  face.  For  one 
moment  brother  and  sister  held  their  breath  in  an 
agony  of  suspense  and  fear.  But  no  cloud  knit  itself 
in  the  old  man's  brow.  After  a  moment's  steady 
gaze,  he  smiled  a  faint,  tender  smile,  and  half  lifted 
one  feeble  hand. 

With  a  beating  heart,  the  poor  girl  bent  to  his  lips 
and  felt  his  kiss  upon  her  cheek.  Then  she  knew 
that  she  was  forgiven,  even  had  not  the  slight,  cling- 
ing clasp  of  the  feeble  hands  folded  over  hers,  told 
her  so  before. 


312 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"At  last,  thank  God !"  was  the  grateful  cry  of  the 
noble-hearted  brother,  and  hastily  turning  away,  he 
sat  down  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  room,  and  sobbed 
like  a  child  in  his  joy,  while  Ellen  wept  upon  her 
father's  breast. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

The  morning  sun  shone  in  calmly  upon  a  quiet  and 
gladdened  group.  Mr.  Raymond  lay  peacefully 
sleeping,  his  son  seated  by  him,  while  Ellen,  hei 
young  face  lighted  with  grateful  joy,  sat  on  a  low 
stool  near  her  mother's  sofa,  both  hands  fondly  clasped 
in  hers,  while  the  gentle  eyes  fixed  on  her  features 
spoke  volumes  of  love  and  gratitude.  The  doctor 
pronounced  the  crisis  past,  and  said  Mr.  Raymond 
would  get  well  rapidly,  turning  a  beaming  glance  on 
Ellen  as  he  did  so.  Mrs.  Raymond  had  a  panacea 
for  all  her  ills  in  the  happy  assurance  of  her  husband's 
safety,  and  the  blessed  reality  of  her  daughter's 
presence.  The  clouds  but  lately  so  threatening,  were 
rolling  away,  and  light  and  peace  had  come  back  to 
their  darkened  lives. 

Ora  looked  on  in  quiet  sympathy,  and  rejoiced  in 
the  change.  It  was  a  rare  and  sweet  feeling  to  enjoy 
such  happiness  as  she  felt  in  looking  upon  the  happi- 
ness of  these  two  devoted  children,  restored  to  a 
parents  love  and  confidence,  no  longer  compelled  to 
resort  to  deceit  to  gain  justice. 

It  looked  fearful  for  them    little  while  since," 


"  Oh,  father,  do  not  die  till  you  have  forgiven  your  child !      (Page  311.) 


ORA,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


318 


she  thought.  "Now  all  is  well.  A  few  hours  have 
changed,  as  it  were,  the  whole  aspect  of  their  lives, 
and  it  is  very  bright  for  them.  May  not  I,  too,  hope 
for  a  change?  Surely,  I  am  not  doomed  to  live  all 
my  earthly  life  in  dread  and  sadness.  Oh,  I  must 
hope  for  a  brighter  day.'' 

The  doctor  was  right.  Mr.  Eaymond  recovered 
rapidly.  In  the  course  of  a  week  he  sat  up ;  in  a  few 
days  more  he  rode  out  in  an  open  carriage,  and  in  a 
fortnight,  was  able  to  walk  about  aided  by  his  staff, 
his  son  always  beside  him. 

Theodore  watched  over  his  feeble  footsteps  as  he 
might  a  little  tottering  child's.  There  was  a  new 
charm  for  him  in  the  old  man's  society.  His  harsh- 
ness and  sternness  he  had  cast  off  with  the  dangers 
of  his  malady,  and  had  risen  to  his  new  life,  gentle, 
thoughtful  and.  kind. 

"During  his  convalescence,  they  had  made  full  and 
mutual  confessions.  Theodore  acknowledged  his 
system  of  deception  and  its  motive,  while  the  old 
man's  tears  fell  silently  over  the  remembrance  of  his 
cruelty.  And  now  the  young  man  lifted  his  head  in 
conscious  pride,  and  his  step  grew  m.ore  buoyant  and 
springing  under  the  happy  influences  around  him. 
He  could  be  his  own  noble,  honest  self  without  fear. 
He  saw  his  sister  forgiven,  and  received  lovingly 
home  again  in  her  parents'  hearts,  aad  his  work  of 
self-sacrifice  was  done.  He  could  love  and  revere 
his  father,  and  for  this  he  rejoiced  with  a  joy  none 
might  guess,  except  thos6  who,  like  him,  have  been 
driven  from  the  tender  emotions  of  filial  love  by 
harshness  and  injustice.    Now  he  wisely  ignored  all 

27 


V 


314  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


that  was  past,  and  lived  in  the  present,  calmed  and 
satisfied . 

As  Mr.  Raymond's  health  improved,  they  mingled 
more  in  the  society  of  the  Springs.  Theodore  loved 
to  entice  his  mother  and  sister  into  company ;  and  as 
several  of  the  lady's  old  friends  were  there,  it  was  not 
long  ere  she  had  a  pleasant  little  circle  around  her. 

Some  of  these  were  fully  acquainted  with  Ellen's 
history — the  story  of  her  marriage,  being  discarded, 
and  her  final  .return  and  reconciliation.  It  was 
generally  believed  that  her  husband  was  dead.  But 
though  this  had  afibrded  a  nice  piece  of  gossip  about 
the  time  of  the  meeting  between  the  child  and 
parents,  they  were  sufficiently  delicate  never  to  hint  a 
knowledge  of  the  painful  events,  and  things  passed 
on  pleasantly  enough. 

But  now  came  the  most  painful  season  for  Ora.  In 
spite  of  her  efibrts  to  keep  aloof,  she  often  found 
herself  drawn  into  the  society  she  wished  to  avoid. 
Ellen's  warm  heart,  glowing  in  its  restored  happiness, 
clung  more  closely  to  her,  and  the  mother  loved  her 
for  her  child's  sake — respected  her  for  her  own  innate 
dignity  and  refinement.  She  had  made  a  favorable 
impression  upon  all,  and  was  beloved  and  honored. 

But  the  footing  on  which  she  stood  was  uncertain. 
The  interest  they  betrayed  in  her  gave  rise  to  the 
question : 

''Who  is  she?" 

A  lady  put  the  question  to  Mrs.  Raymond,  and 
Ellen  had  answered  it  quickly : 

''A  lady — a  widow  whom  brother  engaged  to  take 
care  of  me  when  so  very  ill  this  Spring.    She  has 


ORA,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  315 

lost  her  1  usband  and  a  child,  and  has  no  rehitions  to 
whom  she  may  look  for  assistance.  She  told  me 
she  was  an  orphan.  That  she  is  a  lady,  however, 
and  has  been  accustomed  to  luxury,  every  one  may 
see." 

''Where  does  she  come  froml" 

''The  South.  Can  you  not  tell  her  southern 
nativity  by  her  accent?" 

"  Yes.  I  thought  so.  She  is  a  very  interesting 
person." 

"  Indeed,  she  is!  I  wish  you  could  hear  her  talk 
sometimes.  I  never  heard  her  equal  in  conversation ; 
and  her  voice  and  expression  in  singing,  are  match- 
less. You  would  love  the  ground  she  walked  on,  if 
you  heard  her  sing." 

"How  extravagant  you  are,  Ellen,"  smiled  Mrs. 
Raymond,  glancing  at  the  lady  to  whom  the  eulogium 
was  addressed. 

"  Oh  no,  mamma,  you  are  mistaken,  No  words 
are  competent  to  express  her  wondrous  power.  You 
shall  judge  for  yourself  sometime.  I  will  get  her  to 
sing  for  you.  She  used  to  lull  me  to  sleep  every 
night,  and  invariably  I  closed  my  eyes  with  the  tears 
hanging  upon  my  lashes." 

"You  rouse  my  curiosity,"  said  another  lady  of  the 
group.  '^  Can  you  gratify  us  also,  and  persuade  your 
friend  to  sing  for  our  benefit?" 

"Perhaps,  but  she  is  very  shy,  and  hates  company 
dreadfully." 

"I  believe  all  ladies  do  who  have  met  reverses, 
and  are  compelled  to  accept  dependent  positions 
where  they  once  took  the  lead  in  society.    How  I  pity 


316 


CRA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


that  class  of  refined  poor  people  who  drop  from  ease 
and  luxury  into  labor  and  self-dependence." 

Truly,  their's  cannot  be  the  happiest  of  lives," 
asserted  Mrs.  Raymond. 

do  not  think  our  friend  is  an  exception.  She 
does  not  look  either  happy  or  contented.  Only 
enduring  and  patient.  She  never  complains,  yet 
she  seldom  laughs,  and  very  often  sighs  heavily 
when  she  thinks  no  one  observes  her.  I  find  my 
sympathies  very  strongly  enlisted  in  her  behalf,  some- 
times." 

''Then  she  is  so  good  and  gentle.  I  know  I've 
been  very  naughty  and  cross  many  a  time,"  put  in 
Ellen,  "but  she  was  always  the  same  patient,  loving 
nurse,  in  spite  of  it.  I  wish  I  could  ever  hope  to  be 
half  as  good!" 

Thus  interest  was  aroused  by  exciting  curiosity  and 
implanting  a  favorable  impression  of  her  in  the  minds 
of  these  gossip-loving  ladies,  ever  ready  for  new  and 
pleasing  sensations.  From  the  general  impression, 
old  ladies  found  an  outlet  for  sympathy,  while  the 
young  dipped  into  the  romance  of  her  history  as  they 
gained  an  idea  of  it.  Much  to  Ora's  pain  and  annoy- 
ance, she  soon  found  herself  an  object  of  special 
attention,  sought  after  by  all,  some  curiously,  some 
with  real  kindly  interest,  but  in  both  senses,  far  from 
pleasant  or  agreeable. 

The  one  great  dread  of  her  life  now,  was  of  meet- 
ing the  lady  of  the  forest  encounter.  No  sight  of  her 
had  betrayed  her  presence  since  she  had  been  out  of 
the  sick  chambers  of  her  friends.  Still  she  feared, 
among  so  many,  it  was  a  mere  chance  she  had  not 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


317 


seen  her,  and  that  the  encounter  might  yet  take  place 
at  some  awkward  moment. 

One  evening  Ellen  and  her  mother,  aided  by  some 
friends,  joined  in  persuading  her  to  play  for  them. 
She  would  rather  have  done  anything  in  the  world, 
conscious  as  she  was  how  all  eyes  would  be  drawn 
upon  her.  Yet  she  had  no  motive  for  refusing,  and 
went  to  the  piano  with  a  sick  heart. 

There  was  a  necessity  for  exertion.  She  made  it, 
and  sang  a  favorite  Operatic  Aria  through  well 
Everybody  looked  pleased,  and  the  drawing-room 
began  to  fill.  The  ladies  begged  for  other  songs,  and 
while  she  turned  the  leaves  of  a  music  book,  searching 
for  something,  Mrs.  Norton,  one  of  Mrs.  Raymond's 
friends,  bent  over  her  with  a  compliment. 

Your  voice  is  perfect,  and  now  that  we  know  it, 
you  may  expect  to  find  yourself  in  demand.  We 
poor  pleasure  seekers,  look  upon  those  possessed  of 
your  powers,  as  a  godsend.  Do  you  know,  we  have 
not  had  a  single  vocalist  here  since  the  little  Rich- 
mond belle  went  away.  We  who  are  obliged  to 
remain  the  season  out,  find  it  dull.  For  my  part,  I 
am  half-starved  for  some  good  music.  Be  generous 
and  benevolent,  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  you  will  find  us 
a  grateful  people." 

Her  response  was  one  of  genial  lightness.  The 
little  lady's  chatter  had  carried  a  dread  from  her 
heart  that  before  had  weighed  it  down  heavily.  But 
now  that  she  was  sure  of  her  absence,  she  could  dare 
to  bask  in  the  favor  with  which  people  seemed  disposed 
to  receive  her,  and  fear  no  humiliating  results. 

She  sang  piece  after  piece  with  spirit  and  power, 


318 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


until  at  length,  seeing  that  she  began  to  weary,  the 
charmed  circle  broke,  around  her,  and  she  was  merci- 
fully released.  Ellen  caught  her  arm  as  she  took  a 
seat  beside  her,  and  pinched  it  slily. 

You  little  witch,"  she  whispered  hurriedly. 
^'  There's  not  a  girl  can  stand  a  chance  after  this.  All 
their  noses  will  be  out  of  joint !  Only  think,  three 
gentlemen  have  begged  to  be  presented  to  you  already. 
Oh,  well  may  it  be  said,  'Beware  of  the  vidders»'" 

"Hush,  Ellen!  What  nonsense!"  returned  Ora  in 
the  same  low  tone,  looking  round  to  see  that  no  one 
had  heard  the  mischievous  whisper.  "Who  is  that 
coming  this  way  ?" 

One  of  your  conquests,"  said  Ellen,  again,  in  a  * 
minor  key.    "  He  comes  for  presentation." 

She  was  right.  The  gentleman  came  up  and 
addressed  the  young  lady  with  a  significant  glance, 
who,  comprehending  it  at  once,  presented  Ora  in  due 
form.  Ora  conquered  her  annoyance  as  best  she 
could,  and  entered  into  conversation  easily.  The 
gentleman  was  highly  talented,  cultivated  after  the 
most  approved  style,  and  possessed  a  fund  of  informa- 
tion on  home  and  foreign  subjects  suflficient  to  make 
him  a  more  than  ordinary  conversationist.  Both 
soon  became  earnest  and  interested,  and  those  about 
them  dropped  into  silence,  one  by  one,  till  they  soon 
had  the  whole  of  the  attention  of  their  immediate 
circle.  Ellen  was  delighted.  Her  friend  was  win- 
ning laurels  of  esteem  and  admiration  from  all, 
while  her  own  love  increased  from  the  appreciation 
of  others.  The  mountain  was  moving.  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith was  C£:)ming  back  to  her  old  footing,  only  on  a 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


319 


more  elevated  Bca.e  than  she  had  stood  in  Doctor 
Clifton's  family.  Would  the  time  come  when  sho 
would  find  herself  hurled  back  in  disgrace,  to  struggle 
under  the  bitter  tide  of  wrong  and  injustice? 


OHAPTEK  XXXII. 

OoTOBER  came  in  her  crimson  and  purple  glory  and 
still  the  Raymonds  were  at  Saratoga.  The  time 
passed  rapidly  and  pleasantly  to  all,  Ora  excepted ; 
and  even  she  was  forced  to  yield  to  a  certain  sense 
of  security  and  peace  akin  to  contentment. 

Yet  when  talk  of  returning  home  reached  her 
ears,  she  was  rejoiced  more  than  at  anything  else. 
She  could  never  feel  wholly  at  ease  until  safe  from 
the  possibility  of  meeting  her  enemy. 

Only  a  few  days  yet  remained  of  their  stay.  Theo- 
dore proposed  that  they  should  make  the  most  of  it, 
and  accordingly  there  were  long  walks,  rides  and 
moonlight  strolls,  between  which  times,  they  sang, 
played,  danced  and  talked  as  all  people  do, bent  on 
killing  time  and  seeking  enjoyment. 

Ora,  in  the  short  season  she  had  been  out,  had 
unwittingly  gained  many  admirers.  Seldom  did  she 
sit  down  in  the  parlor  or  walk  out  without  a  crowd 
of  friends  or  a  host  of  attendants,  as  Theodore  laugh- 
ingly asserted.  He  seldom  attempted  to  get  near 
her.  He  saw  her  every  day,  and  that  she  was  well 
cared  for.    Beyond  that  he  yielded  her  the  merest 


320 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


civilities  required  of  him,  and  th'cD  seemed  to  ignore 
her  existence. 

Alwaj^s  cheerful,  always  gay,  yet  she  saw  a 
change.  Had  he  remembered  that  unfortunate 
meeting,  and  did  it  raise  doubts  in  his  mind  which 
kept  him  aloof?  Gradually  he  had  seemed  to  with- 
draw from  tlieir  old  habits.  There  were  no  more 
quiet  little  chats,  no  seeming  wish  either  to  be  near 
or  avoid,  yet  of  cool  indifference ;  perfect  politeness 
always  observed  alone  or  with  others,  but  no  more. 
Had  things  been  different  she  would  have  been  glad 
of  this.  As  it  was,  sh^  feared  his  thoughts,  his 
silence,  his  indifference,  his  politeness.  The  latter 
was  too  studied.    It  argued  a  change. 

This  continued  up  to  the  last  day  but  one  of  her 
stay.  On  the  afternoon  of  that  day  she  was  sitting 
in  the  parlor  of  their  own  suite  of  rooms,  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond, Ellen  and  Mr.  Raymond  having  driven  out 
for  the  last  time.  She  had  declined  accompanying 
them,  and  had  taken  up  a  book  to  read,  when  Theo- 
dore came  in  and  accosted  her  lightly. 

"Alone?    I  thought  you  were  out  riding?" 

"  No,  I  preferred  home.  How  is  it  you  did  not 
go?" 

"  Like  you,  I  preferred  home.  I  am  sick  of  running 
about,  and  shall  be  glad  to  get  away  from  here.  But 
you  are  moping  yourself  to  death.  "Why  do  you  not 
go  down?  There  are  three  'last  roses  of  summer' 
straying  about  the  premises  nursing  vain  hopes.  I 
think  I  must  get  my  friend,  the  proprietor,  to  tender 
you  a  bill  of  thanks  for  services  done  him  this 
season." 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


321 


"Why?"  asked  Ora,  wonderingly. 
Theodore  laughed. 

"Why,  how  innocent  you  are.  For  drawing  cus- 
torn,  of  course.  I  know  no  less  than  four  gentlemen 
who  would  have  gone  four  weeks  ago  but  for  your 
powers  of  attraction.  They  could  not  find  it  in  their 
hearts  to  leave  while  you  remained." 

"Mr.  Eaymond!" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  little  branch  of  ever- 
green he  had  carried  with  him  into  the  room,  and 
encountered  her  glance.  A  surprised  look  he  met, 
and  dignity  mingled  with  indignation  was  expressed 
in  every  curve  of  face  and  form. 

"  Well,"  he  laughed  easily,  "  is  there  anything  in 
that,  that  you  look  so  proudly  astonished?  Ladies 
love  to  know  themselves  admired.  You  know  your- 
self attractive,  and  are  but  receiving  your  due." 

She  let  fall  her  eyes  and  deigned  no  reply. 

"  Is  it  not  so  ?"  he  asked  in  the  same  tone,  plucking 
away  at  the  leaves  in  his  hand.  "Now  tell  me 
candidly,  Mrs.  Meredith,  what  makes  a  woman 
happier  than  to  feel  -conscious  of  a  beauty  and 
talent  that  may  win  whom  she  likes  to  her  feet?" 

"What?"  she  lifted  her  face  full  upon  him,  her 
deep  eyes  glistening  with  the  sudden  rise  of  emotion. 
"  What  makes  a  woman  happier  than  these,  do  you 
ask?  Strange  question  to  put  to  one  of  feeling  and 
principle !  But,  since  you  put  this  question,  hear  the 
answer.  A  woman,  if  she  be  a  true  woman,  is 
happy  in  knowing  herself  regarded  as  something 
more  than  a  thing  of  beauty  and  admiration — 
sometfjing  to  respect  and  esteem  above  caprices  and 


322 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


whims,  and  the  petty  ambition  of  drawing  others  to 
her  feet.  To  feel  herself  looked  upon  as  an  equal,  a 
companion ;  a  being  whose  feelings  and  sentiments 
are  respected,  and  whose  weaknesses  are  free  from, 
the  sports  and  jests  of  her  associates.  You  cannot 
think  such  an  ambition  as  you  describe,  when 
attained,  can  bring  happiness,  Mr.  Raymond." 

"  I  know  scores  that  are  perfectly  happy  with  just 
such  resources  as  we  are  discussing.  Do  you  not 
feel  a  sense  of  happiness  in  your  own  power?" 

"  My  power  of  pleasing  ?  Yes.  It  tends  to  enable 
me  to  make  those  around  me  happy.  I  desire  it — in 
a  measure  cultivate  it.  But  I  desire  no  powers  to 
win  me  admiration.  It  is  a  duty  to  try  to  add  to  the 
brightness  of  the  lives  of  others  so  far  as  we  may. 
No  duty  demands  that  we  seek  admiration  which 
could  affect  only  ourselves,  and  benefit  no  one." 

"  I  grant  you  that,  but  where  will  you  find  one 
woman  in  a  thousand  who  will  stop  to  think  of  others, 
if  she  be  pretty  and  attractive  ?  She  loves  all  the 
homage  she  can  get  too  well,  and  will  only  think  of 
others  so  far  as  she  can  use  them  to  further  her 
purposes." 

"For  one  who  has  a  mother  and  a  sister,  you  take 
a  severe  view  of  the  sex,"  she  replied,  pointedly,  her 
feelings  of  chagrin  and  displeasure  bursting  out  in 
spite  of  herself.  "  I  am  surprised  to  find  you  so 
uncharitable.    It  is  unlike  you." 

"No,  it  is  like  me.  You  have  not  seen  me  fairly 
yet.  I  have  seen  too  much  flirting  and  coquetry 
since  I  have  been  here,  not  to  get  the  old  feeling 
stirred  up,  and  this  is  one  of  the  times  I  must  let 


ORA,  THE  LOST  WIFE. 


323 


some  of  i"-  escape.  It  is  not  good  for  me.  I  get 
sickened.  Perhaps  I  may  find  one  woman  in  a 
thousand  to  whose  strict  principles  of  truth  and 
honor  I  can  yield  up  my  homage  willingly — no 
more." 

Yet  there  are  many — very  many  good  and  true." 

"Fewer  than  you  think,  especially  among  the 
fairest.  They  use  their  beauty  as  merchants  use 
their  fairest  goods  to  attract  d,tterU:ion,  If  they  get 
that,  they  care  for  li.ttle  else." 

Ora  smiled  slightly.  A  light  began  to  break  in 
upon  her. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  reasons  for  the  assertion,"  she 
said.  "  They  may  have  been  practising  upon  you, 
and  touched  a  tender  place  in  your  heart." 

She  had  said  it  jestingly.  He  looked  her  straight 
in  the  eyes  and  said  slowly: 

"  Perhaps.    You  can  judge  best." 

"I?  I  do  not  understand  you !  How  can  I  know 
who  may  have  been  playing  upon  your  feelings  till 
it  has  reached  a  point  where  you  as  good  as  declare 
yourself  disgusted  with  the  sex?" 

Oh,  you  are  a  competent  judge  of  human 
nature.  I  give  you  credit  for  discretion  and  good 
sense." 

"Thank  you.  You  have  changed  your  mind 
since  you  asked  me  what  more  woman  wished,  to 
constitute  happiness,  than  the  beauty  and  talent  to 
win  admirers." 

He  got  up  and  crossed  the  room  to  a  window, 
and  stood  looking  out  for  a  moment.  When  he 
^ame  back,  he  sat  down  near  her.    His  whole  face 


324 


ORA     THE   LOST  WIFE. 


and  manner  were  changed.  He  was  agitated  and 
eager. 

"  We  have  talked  nonsense  long  enough,"  he  said. 

Excuse  me  for  forcing  it  upon  you.  I  did  but  jest. 
I  came  here  for  another  purpose.  Mrs.  Meredith,  I 
want  to  ask  you  a  question.    Will  you  answer  me  V'^ 

"  I  will  if  I  can  rightly.    What  is  it 
Who  is  the  lady  you  saw  that  day  we  rode  out — 
the  same  in  whioh  mother  and  father  came  here  ?" 

The  sudden  question  turned  her  sick  and  dizzy. 
She  could  scarcely  gasp  out : 

"What  reason  have  you  for  supposing  I  know?" 

"Enough.  Your  face  and  hers  were  sufficient  to 
betray  your  knowledge  of  each  other.  There  is 
knowledge  and  interest,  peculiar  and  strong.  I  saw 
it." 

"  And  supposing  it  were  so,  have  you  a  right  to 
question  its  nature  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  have.  I  want  to  know  for  the 
sake  of  my  future  peace  of  mind.  Once  I  asked  you 
to  tell  me  something  of  yourself.  You  refused. 
Since  that,  1  have  tried  to  be  patient,  and  leave  you 
to  tell  me  of  your  OAvn  free  will.  That  incident 
served  to  increase  my  desire,  and  now  I  can  bear  it 
no  longer.    I  must  know  it." 

"  Sir !" 

"Nay,  do  not  be  offended.  My  happiness  rests 
upon  it,  Mrs.  Meredith,  or  I  would  not  dare  to  do  so. 
Surely,  we  have  a  right  to  secure  this  if  we  can." 

"  I  cannot  see  where  it  involves  yours  in  the  least," 
she  returned  coldly. 

"  You  cannot !"  His  tones  were  passionate.  "  Oh, 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


325 


can  I  believe  you  when  you  say  this  ?  Where  are 
your  woman's  ej^es  and  wits,  that  you  do  not  catch 
the  secret  of  my  interest ?  <  I  love  you!  I  would 
know  if  there  is  any  reason  why  1  may  not  seek  to 
win  you.  I  have  not  dared  till  now,  to  even  dream 
of  uttering  the  truth  to  myself,  lest  there  should  bo 
some  barrier  between  us.  But  the  time  has  gone  by 
for  suspense.  Only  tell  me  this — I  seek  to  know  no 
more  now.  Is  there  ought  existing  between  you 
and  any  man  who  might  seek  to  win  your  love  ? 
I  ask  this  because  your  conduct  has  taught  me  that 
you  avoided  attention  from  my  sex,  as  though  you 
feared  evil.  This  fear  of  evil  could  only  arise  from 
some  conscious  barrier.    Is  it  so,  or  am  I  in  fault  V 

"  You  are  right,"  she  breathed,  unable  to  give  any 
but  a  plain,  frank  answer  to  such  a  question. 

"  Is  it  insurmountable  His  voice  was  thick  and 
husky. 

"  It  is." 

He  groaned  as  if  in  deep  pain. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  he  faltered,  "  what  strong  hopes 
and  feelings  have  sprung  up,  till  now.  You  have 
given  me  a  blow !" 

She  rose  to  leave  the  room,  shaking  like  an  aspen. 

"  Do  not  leave  me  yet,"  he  cried  in  passionate 
entreaty,  seizing  her  hand  to  detain  her.  "  Spare  me 
yet  a  moment  in  which  to  speak  to  you." 

"No,  I  must  not,"  she  said  positively,  "you  may 
be  tempted  to  utter  words  I  must  not  listen  to.  Let 
me  go,  Mr.  Raymond,  and  try  to  forget  this  wild 
scene !" 

"  Forget  it !  .1  cannot,  and  you  know  it  well.  Tell 


326 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


me,  what  is  it,  that  shuts  me  out  hopelessly  from 
your  thougl-ts?" 

"  I  cannot.  Be  assured  that  you  are  barred  from 
me  most  effectually.  The  nature  of  that  bar,  I  may 
not  tell  you.  Mr.  Raymond,  let  me  go.  Do  not  add 
to  my  pain  by  prolonging  this  scene.  My  life  has 
been  one  of  sorrow.  I  had  hoped  for  peace  now. 
Do  not  destroy  the  last  to  which  I  cling." 

"  God  knows  I  would  not.  That  you  have  suffered, 
I  am  fully  av/are,  and  it  must  have  been  deeply,  to 
have  made  you  what  you  are.  I  would  I  might 
shield  you  forever  from  the  possibility  of  future 
sorrow." 

"  Hush !    I  connot  listen  to  such  words  !" 
She  struggled  to  get  free. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  continued.  "  Tell  me  what  it  is 
that  bars  me  from  you !    Do  you  love  another  ?" 

"  Mr.  Raymond,  cease  this  questioning.  I  have 
answered  enough.  Remember  our  respective  posi- 
tions— master  and  servant — no  more.  I  am  your  paid 
subordinate,  and  as  far  beyond  your  reach  as  the 
North  Star.  Do  not  pursue  this  painful  subject 
farther.    It  must  end  1" 

She  wrenched  her  hand  from  his  grasp  and  swept 
from  the  room  to  shut  herself  up  in  an  agony  of 
grief  and  alarm,  while  he  turned  away,  his  manly 
heart  full  of  a  wild,  bitter  and  rebellious  feeling  new 
to  him.  Leaving  the  place,  he  wandered  away, 
across  the  fields  to  a  little  belt  of  woods,  where  he 
threw  himself  upon  the  grass  sprinkled  with  the 
bright  autumn  leaves,  and  lay  brooding  bitterly  till 
darkness  sheltered  all  Nature  with  one  sable  robe. 


CHAPTER  XXXni. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  Theodore  returned 
to  the  hotel.  Ellen  and  Mrs.  Raymond  were  in  their 
parlor.  Ora  was  not  to  be  seen.  He  supposed  she 
was  in  her  room,  and  took  a  seat  silently.  Too  much 
occupied  with  his  own  thoughts,  he  had  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  what  they  were  saying  when  he  came  in — 
did  not  heed  them  now  till  Mrs.  Raymond  called 
to  him  across  the  room. 

"  Come  here  my  son,  I  want  you." 

He  rose  slowly  and  approached  her. 

"  Well,  mother,  what  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Raymond  looked  up  at  him  quickly. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  boy?  Are  you 
not  well  ?  You  are  quite  pale  and  look  worn,"  she 
cried  in  concern. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  I  am 
quite  well,  I  assure  you.  A  little  dull,  perhaps,  but 
.  no  more,"  he  replied,  anxious  to  allay  her  fears  and 
put  an  end  to  unpleasant  questions.  "Did  you  wish 
to  tell  me  something  particular?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  fancied  as  you  came  up,  that  you  had 
heard  it  already,  you  look  so  gloomy  and  disturbed. 
Have  you  heard  nothing  unpleasant?" 

"Anything  unpleasant,  in  what  way?  Do  you 
speak  of  anything  concerning  mj^self  or  all  of  us — • 
or  is  it  anything  about  us  at  all  ?"  he  asked  in  per- 
(327) 


328 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


plexity,  his  thoughts  running  upon  his  interview 
with  Mrs.  Meredith. 

About  Ellen,"  answered  Mrs.  Raymond,  compres- 
sing her  lips  while  Ellen  dropped  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Instantly  his  brow  flushed.  He  saw  that, 
something  was  wrong  to  afiect  them  in  such  a  striking 
manner. 

"  What  is  it,  and  who  has  been  speaking  of  her?" 
he  demanded  sternly. 

"  Do  not  allow  yourself  to  get  excited,"  returned 
Mrs.  Raymond.  "  It  is  a  woman  and  you  can  do 
nothing.  A  stranger  to  us  all.  That  is  the  most 
singular  thing  about  the  aflair.  How  could  she  learn 
so  much  of  our  history  ?  I  never  saw  the  woman 
before  to-night  in  my  life,  and  yet  she  seems  to 
possess  a  thorough  knowledge  of  everything  that 
concerns  us — even  our  most  private  afiairs." 

"  How  did  you  learn  this  ?    Who  is  the  stranger?" 
demanded  Theodore. 

"  I  don't  know  who  she  is,  I  am  sure.  She  seems 
to  have  been  here  before,  from  what  I  could  gather 
from  a  conversation  I  overheard  between  her  and  a 
gentleman  in  the  parlor.  She  is  tall,  very  slender, 
with  dark  eyes  and  hair.  Very  pretty  and  very  • 
stylish  in  her  appearance.  Ellen  says  she  thinks  she 
saw  her  here  before  we  came,  on  horseback,  but  is 
not  quite  sure.  I  am  inclined  to  think  so.  She  must 
have  been  here  before,  and  some  busybody  informed 
her  all  she  repeated  so  volubly.  It  is  a  shame  !  I 
cannot  get  over  it.  Who  of  our  acquaintances  here 
is  it  that  has  made  such  free  use  of  our  names  to 
strangers  ?" 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


329 


"  What  is  it  that  was  said  ?"  asked  Theodore 
impatiently.  "  I  am  all  in  the  dark  as  yet.  Explain 
yourself  mother." 

Softly !  give  me  time,  my  son.  It  happened  this 
way : 

"  When  we  returned  from  our  drive,  after  changing 
our  dress,  we  went  into  the  parlor,  and  Ellen  sat 
down  by  Mrs.  Tyler,  while  I,  feeling  a  little  tired, 
went  into  a  window  near  by,  but  just  back  of  them, 
and  drawing  the  curtains,  sat  still, looking  out. 

"  I  had  been  there  perhaps  ten  minutes,  when  a 
lady  and  gentleman  came  in  and  sat  down  near  me, 
and  their  conversation  turned  at  once  upon  Ellen.  I 
could  not  help  hearing  every  word,  though  they 
spoke  in  a  low  tone. 

'''Do  you  know  that  young  lady?'  asked  the 
gentleman,  indicating  your  sister  by  a  slight  nod. 
She  laughed  and  answered  lightly. 

" '  Yes,  it  is  a  Miss  Kaymond.  At  least  she  is  called 
so,  though  she  is  married.  I  believe  her  husband 
proved  a  villain,  and  deserted  her.  A  fit  punishment 
for  disobedience,  I  suppose  we  may  say.  It  was  a 
runaway  match.  The  father,  who  is  a  minister, 
opposed  it  bitterly,  and  discarded  her  in  consequence. 
It  is  but  lately  that  they  were  reconciled.  I  assure 
you,  it  is  quite  an  interesting  little  romance.' 

" '  Indeed  !  She  is  pretty,'  remarked  the  gentle- 
man with  a  tone  of  interest. 

"  '  Yes,  she  is  quite  handsome.  But  her  companion 
is  handsomer.  Do  you  see  that  tall  lady  just  beyond 
her,  with  a  book  in  her  hand.  That  is  her  companion. 
1  believe  she  nirsed  her  through  a  dangerous  illness. 

28 


330 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


I  have  heard  the  whole  history.  After  the  husband 
deserted  her,  the  brother  brought  her  home  secretly 
and  took  care  of  her.  It  was  then  this  lady  was 
engaged.  They  came  here,  and  a  little  while  after- 
ward, the  parents  came.  The  presence  of  their 
daughter  was  unknown  to  them  till  a  dangerous 
illness  of  the  father's  brought  it  to  light.  They 
thought  him  dying  and  she  was  brought  to  him. 
The  consequence  was  a  reconciliation,  and  a  return 
of  the  young  lady  to  her  former  position.  For  my 
part,'  the  lady  here  said  confidentially,  'I  cannot 
understand  how  she  can  bear  .to  come  before  the 
world  again  after  such  unpleasant  circumstances. 
A  discarded  daughter — deserted  wife  !  She  must 
have  a  good  stout  heart  as  the  Dutchman  says,  to 
endure  it.  She  has,  since  the  revelation,  furnished 
food  for  gossip  for  everybody  here.  They  must 
know  how  people  regard  the  affair.  How  can  they 
come  into  society  in  the  manner  they  have  done  ? 
One  would  think  they  would  seclude  themselves 
rigidly.' " 

Here,"  continued  Mrs.  Raymond,  "  she  con- 
descended to  stop,  and  1  left  the  window.  I  went 
straight  to  Ellen,  excused  her  to  Mrs.  Tyler,  and 
brought  her  out.  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
her  sitting  under  the  scathing  criticism  of  this  daring 
stranger.  Oh,  it  has  hurt  me  more  than  1  can  tell! 
How  foolish  we  have  been  to  stay  here !" 

Aye  !"  cried  Theodore,  pausing  in  a  rapid  pace 
across  the  room.  "The  fault  is  ours!  We  have 
been  fools  to  run  this  risk  of  scandal.  We  are  not 
ignorant  of  the  world's  habit  of  handling  people's 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


331 


names,  and  should  have  shielded  ourselves  by  going 
home  and  staying  there." 

"  But,  brother,  you  forget  papa's  health,"  put  in 
Ellen.    "  It  was  necessary  to  remain  on  his  account." 

"  Then  we  ought  to  have  shunned  society." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Raymond^ 
"  but  we  scarcely  thought  any  friends  we  had  here 
would  handle  our  names  so  freely.  Old,  valued 
acquaintances,  who  ought  to  look  over  the  follies  of 
youth,  and  be  silent  concerning  them." 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  people  doing  that  ?"  aspirated 
Theodore,  angrily.  "I  can  tell  you,  mother,  there's 
no  one  to  be  trusted  with  afiairs  that  touch  us  in  a 
tender  point.  The  safest  way  is  to  keep  aloof  from 
everybody,  and  guard  one's  own  interests  silently.  I 
am  exasperated  to  think  of  this  affair,  though  it  is 
nothing  wonderful,  when  we  remember  the  cause;  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  quite  natural." 

He  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  room,  his  thoughts 
in  tumult.  That  his  sister  was  the  subject  of  gossip 
for  strangers,  was  enough  to  upset  his  usual  equa- 
nimity, even  had  he  no  other  cause.  But  this, 
combined  with  his  personal  disquiet,  made  him 
savage. 

"  Who  can  this  woman  be  that  is  meddling  herself 
thus  in  our  affairs,"  he  commented  inly.  "  I'll  find 
out,  if  possible.  She  is  most  too  ready  with  her 
information.  Where  could  she  have  got  such  minute 
particulars?     I  wonder — " 

His  cogitations  were  cut  short  by  an  apparition 
that  stopped  him  short  in  his  way  down  the  hall.  A 
ioor  on  the  right  was  hastily  opened,  and  Mrs. 


332 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Meredith,  came  out,  both  hands  clasped  over  hei 
bosom.  Her  face  was  pallid,  her  eyes  wild.  A 
slender  figm^e  was  behind  her  in  the  door  way,  and 
sent  a  mocking  laugh  after  the  retreating  form  of  her 
visitor,  for  visitor  she  doubtless  was,  since  she  had 
emerged  from  her  room.  Theodore  recognized  the 
Richmond  belle  in  his  brief  glimpse  of  her,  and  a 
thought  flashed  through  his  brain. 

"  Could  Mrs.  Meredith  have  informed  her  of  their 
history  in  such  detail  ?  She  knew  it,  and  that  there 
was  a  mystery  between  them,  he  knew  already.  He 
had  no  doubt  of  the  person  whose  insulting  gossip 
his  mother  had  overheard.  She  was  at  the  Springs 
when  they  came  there,  and  had  remained  sometime. 
The  incident  of  Ora's  fright  on  first  seeing  her — her 
subsequent  meeting  in  the  wood — everything  came 
back  vividly.  He  had  never  forgotten  them,  but  had 
given  up  his  endeavor  to  unravel  the  mystery  for  the 
time  being.  Now  all  the  old  interest  was  awakened. 
He  was  angry  and  determined  to  get  at  the  bottom 
of  it. 

On  seeing  him,  the  stranger  closed  her  door,  and 
he  confronted  Ora  haughtily. 

"  Mrs.  Meredith,  a  word  with  you,  if  you  please, 
ere  you  join  my  mother,"  he  said  commandingly. 

She  drew  back  surprised,  and  haughty  as  himself,- 
though  trembling  in  every  limb. 

"  You  must  excuse  me.  I  cannot  speak  with  you 
here.  It  is  not  a  time  or  a  fitting  place,  even  were  I 
inclined  to  grant  the  request." 

"  I  do  not  wish  the  interview  here.  Come  with  me 
out  a  little  way.    I  must  speak  with  you." 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


333 


"  Impossible  !  Suffer  me  to  pass,  Mr.  Eaj^mond. 
1  have  no  time  to  spare." 

"  I  will  nut.  You  must  hear  what  I  have  to  say," 
he  returned,  drawing  her  arm  within  his  own,  and 
turning  to  descend  the  stairs.  "  1  will  not  detain  you 
long." 

"  This  is  an  outrage,  sir !"  broke  from  Ora  as  he 
drew  her  along,  almost  forcibly.  "  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  call  for  assistance." 

"  Be  still,"  he  said  in  a  low,  determined  tone. 

Don't  attract  useless  attention.  I  am  not  going  to 
murder  you." 

She  was  panting  with  passionate  rebellious  feeling, 
but  he  was  heedless  of  the  fact,  and  conducted  her 
out  of  the  house,  entering  a  secluded  walk  and  pro- 
ceeding some  distance  to* escape  observation.  Ora 
here  broke  loose  from  his  grasp  and  stood  before 
him. 

"  Tell  me  the  meaning  of  this,  sir !  You  have 
taken  a  most  unwarrantable  liberty  in  thus  forcing 
an  interview  upon  me.  I  thought  the  matter  at  an 
end." 

"  Do  not  mistake  me  !"  he  replied  coolly.  "  I  am 
not  going  to  repeat  my  declaration  of  love  to  you,  be 
assured.  I  am  now  endeavoring  to  fathom  this 
mystery  between  yourself  and  that  woman  I  saw 
with  you  a  moment  since.  You  refused  to  tell  me 
once  to-day,  but  now  I  repeat  the  request.  What  is 
she  to  you,  and  why  should  you  repeat  to  her  the 
sad  history  of  my  sister's  unfortunate  marriage'^  I 
am  puzzled  to  understand  how  it  could  benefit  you  to 
recount  it  to  an  utter  stranger." 


334 


ORA,  THE  LOST  WIFE. 


I  repeat  anythino;  concerning  your  sister  to  her? 
you  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Kaymond.  Such. a  thought 
never  entered  my  mind.  What  authority  have  you 
in  making  the  accusation  ? " 

"  Her  thorough  knowledge  of  the  affair,  and  your 
secret  intercourse  with  her.  I  can  come  to  no  other 
conclusion.  How  came  you  to  tell  her  of  our  affairs. 
Who  is  she,  that  she  cares  to  know  and  repeat 
them?" 

"  Sir,  you  insult  me  with  the  question  !  Have  I 
not  told  you  I  did  not  repeat  anything  to  her?  As 
for  secret  intercourse,  I  deny  that  also ;  I  never  spoke 
to  her  till  this  night,  and  then  she  forced  the  inter- 
view upon  me  by  drawing  me  into  her  room.  Your 
names  were  not  mentioned  once.  Mr.  Raymond,  you 
are  acting  a  cruelly  unkind  part  by  me,"  she  conti- 
nued in  a  calmer  tone.  I  am  in  an  agony  of  dread 
and  suspense.  I  must  return  at  once  to  the  house. 
Do  not  misconstrue  me  further.  I  am  the  last  one  to 
injure  one  of  your  family,  or  to  betray  a  confidence 
reposed  in  me,  as  you  would  believe." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  think  of  all  this  ?  You  will 
make  no  explanation.  Why  do  you  refuse  to  tell  me 
who  this  woman  is?  It  were  better  for  you  to 
e:^lain  than  to  lay  yourself  open  to  condemnation 
and  suspicion." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Raymond,  why  will  you  persecute  me?" 
she  cried  suddenly,  wringing  her  hands.  "  I  shall  go 
crazy !  That  woman  has  been  the  bane  of  my  life — 
poisoned  my  whole  existence — brought  me  to  the 
friendless,  helpless  condition  you  see  me  in  now. 
Do  not  ask  me  how.    I  cannot  tell  you.    But  she  is 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


335 


my  bitter  enemy,  know  that — and  I  hate — oh,  I  hate^ 
her  as  I  would  hate  a  fiend  incarnate." 

Was  this  Ora  Meredith — this  personification  of 
wrath  that  stood  before  liim — iier  hands  locked — her 
frame  trembling — hissing  the  words  tlirough  her  shut 
teeth  with  the  intensity  of  an  overpowering  emotion  ? 
Theodore  could  scarcely  realize  the  truth,  and  she 
stood  beating  one  foot  passionately  upon  the  ground, 
while  his  gaze  penetrated  the  gloom  to  read  her  face. 

"Mr.  Kaymond,^'  she  added  suddenly  and  eagerly 
as  a  new  thought  seemed  to  strike  her,  "you  to-day 
expressed  an  affection  for  me  which  I  was  forced  to 
put  coldly  from  me.  I  did  not  wish  to  give  you 
pain,  and  do  not  now.  I  cannot  help  it  if  I  have 
done  so.  A  cruel  Fate  pursues  me.  I  am  safe  and 
at  rest  nowhere.  As  soon  as  I  find  a  little  haven 
where  I  fancy  I  may  be  in  peace,  I  am  driven  forth 
more  utterly  wretched.  Oh,  it  is  hard,  hard  !  Now 
I  must  leave  you  as  I  have  left  every  one  else  who 
was  kind  to  me,  and  gave  me  a  peaceful  home.  I 
beg  of  you  to  help  me.  Get  me  off  by  this  night's 
train.  You  can  help  me,  I  must  not  wait  till 
to-morrow !" 

"  But  why  to  night  ?  You  must  be  mad.  There  is 
not  an  hour  to  get  ready  in  before  the  cars  leave. 
How  could  you  go,  and  why  should  you?  We  all 
expect  you  to  return  to  the  city  with  us,"  cried 
Theodore,  in  amazement. 

"  But,  I  cannot,  I  cannot  wait,"  she.  replied  vehe- 
mently. "  Oh,  if  I  stay  here,  I  shall  go  mad !  He 
is  coming  to-morrow,  will  be  here  before  we  could 
leave,  and  I  dare  not  meet  him.    Ah,  Mr.  Eaymond, 


336 


ORA,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


if  you  knew  how  I  suffered,  you  would  pity  me  !  Do 
not  think  me  rash  or  mad.  I  am  quite  sane,  but  I 
shall  not  be  long,  if  this  continues." 

He  saw  that  she  was  wild  with  excitement,  and 
pitied  her.  His  tones  were  kind  and  gentle  when  he 
replied : 

"  But  this  is  an  extraordinary  proceeding,  Mrs. 
Meredith.  How  am  I  to  account  to  my  friends  for 
your  departure  if  you  go  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know!  Anyway  you  think  proper. 
I  must  go  !  I  must^  I  tell  you !  I  must  go  now,  or  I 
will  be  too  late  !" 

She  was  turning  from  him,  but  he  caught  her  arm 
and  held  her  fast. 

"Not  yet.  One  word  more,  Ora.  Why  should 
you  go  ?" 

"  Why  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you  some  one  was  coming 
whom  I  did  not  want  to  see?  I  cannot  see  him.  It' 
will  kill  me." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  Tell  me  Ora.  I  will  be 
your  friend." 

He  held  her  tightly,  and  in  an  agony  of  impatience 
she  struggled  to  get  free.  But  his  calm,  kind  tones 
arrested  her  efforts.  A  change  of  feeling  rushed 
over  her  instantly. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  uttered  desperately.  "  It 
will  put  an  end  to  some  things  I  can  no  longer  strug- 
gle against.  The  man  who  is  to  be  here  is  my 
husband.  That  woman  came  between  him  and  me 
nearly  six  years  ago.  She  has  wrecked  my  life.  I 
could  not  bear  to  know  myself  neglected  for  her.  It 
drove  me  mad,  and  I  left  him.    Since  then  my  life 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


337 


has  been  one  of  toil  and  suffering.  Now  you  under- 
stand the  mystery  between  us.  You  understand  why 
I  paled  and  shook  at  the  sight  of  lier.  I  could  never 
forget.  Her  face  will  live  in  my  memory  till  death, 
and  the  sight  of  it  will  madden  me  yet.  To  nii^ht 
she  stood  in  her  door  as  I  came  by,  and  suddenly 
caught  my  arm  before  I  had  noticed  her,  drawing 
me  within.  I  will  not  repeat  the  scene  that  followed. 
She  mocked  and  taunted  me,  and  said  he  was  coming 
after  her  to-morrow.  My  God,  G<in  1  stay  to  see 
him  by  her  side  again — to  live  over  something  of 
the  old  agony  and  shame  of  years  past !  No,  I  will 
not.  Once  I  would  have  cut  my  tongue  out  before  I 
would  have  told  you  this !  How  could  I  bear  to  tell 
you  such  a  tale  of  humiliation,  and  feel  that  you 
pitied  me !  But  now,  desperation  has  driven  me 
beyond  my  pride.  I  v^ant  only  to  escape  him.  You 
have  promised  to  be  my  friend.  I  have  told  you 
how  much  I  need  one,  in  the  story  of  my  wrongs. 
Will  you  be  that  friend,  or  will  you  retract?" 

"  I  will  be  your  friend,"  he  responded,  huskily. 
Trust  me,  Mrs.  Meredith.  I  thank  you  for  your  confi- 
dence. Would  you  had  told  me  long  ago,  when  I 
first  asked  you.  It  would  have  spared  us  both  much 
pain,  and  I  should  not  have  insulted  you  with  '  pity.' 
However,  it  is  all  past  now.  I  will  help  you  all  I 
can.    Where  do  you  wish  to  go  ?    Back  to  the  city  ?" 

"  Yes.  But  I  can  never  come  to  you  again.  I 
shall  find  something  to  do,  someway.  All  I  want  is 
to  keep  out  of  his  sight,  for  I  could  not  bear  it.  He 
must  not  know  where  to  look  for  me." 

"Will  you  answer  me  one  question  more,  Mrs. 
29 


338 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Merediih?"  he  asked  tremulously,  but  striving  tc 
'|uiet  his  tones  to  a  steadiness  hiding  the  interest  he 
I  At  in  her  reply. 
"What  is  it?" 

"Do  you — do  you  love  your  husband  still?" 
"  Love  him !"  she  uttered  passionately,  snatching 
■I or  hand  from  his  arm.  "  Love  him  still!  JVo  /  I 
•>ate  him  as  I  do  her !  I  have  regarded  him  for  years 
unworthy  my  love,  but  still  excused  him  some- 
vhat,  till  within  the  last  year.  When  I  saw  my  child 
lie,  I  vowed  solemnly  never  again  to  cherish  a  lenient 
hought  toward  him.  He  was  he?'  murderer!  He 
»:is  more  than  murdered — outraged,  scorned,  insulted 
nie  !    How  could  I  love  him?" 

He  drew  her  arm  within  his  once  more  in  silence, 
md  they  turned  toward  the  house.  Presently  he 
3>ud: 

"  I  will  help  you  oflf  as  you  desire,  but  you  will 
rommunicate  with  me  in  the  city  ?" 
"  No,  no  !    I  cannot." 

"  Why  ?  I  may  be  able  to  help  you  in  some  way. 
Tou  will  need  a  friend  in  your  friendless  situation, 
;:)d  I  promise  you  to  be  true  and  faithful.  Let  me 
•>rove  to  you  that  I  can  be  one,  independent  of  in- 
-rested  motives.  I  now  understand  fully  how  widely 
V  e  are  separated.  I  will  not  distress  you  with  my 
rofessions  of  love.  Only  let  me  befriend  you,  as  I 
^  ould  have  any  one  befriend  my  sister.  Will  you  not 
•  > !  omise  this  ?    1  cannot  let  you  go  away  so  forlornly." 

She  hesitated,  then  gave  him  the  promise  of 
M forming  him  of  her  whereabouts.  He  thanked 
:;or  and  added : 


ORA,  THE  LOST  WIFE.  339 

'  One  thing  more.  You  cannot  go  away  in  the 
clandestine  manner  you  contemplate.  You  must  let 
my  mother  and  Ellen  know  it.  Take  leave  of  them 
as  you  would  of  your  best  friends,  and  leave  me  to 
explain  to  them." 

They  entered  the  house,  and  *  Theodore  led  her 
up  stairs. 

"  You  have  but  little  time  to  wait,"  he  said.  "  Go 
to  your  room,  get  your  things  ready,  and  I  will 
prepare  them  for  your  departure.  Do  not  fear.  All 
will  go  well,  and  none  but  ourselves  will  know  that 
you  are  gone." 

He  opened  her  door  from  the  corridors,  and  she 
entered,  thanking  him  gratefully.  In  a  little  while 
she  had  packed  av/ay  the  few  things  that  were  left 
out,  and  put  on  her  wrappings.  She  had  scarcely 
finished  w^hen  the  porter  knocked  at  her  door,  and 
asked  for  her  trunk.  Then  she  turned  toward  the 
parlor,  a  sickening  dread  upon  her  spirits.  What 
would  they  say?  What  could  they  think  of  this 
strange  flight  ?  She  could  hear  their  voices  plainly, 
as  if  in  discussion,  Theodore's  above  the  rest, 
firm,  strong,  manly. 

Two  or  three  times  her  hand  rested  upon  the  door 
before  she  could  muster  courage  to  enter.  When 
she  did  so,  her  heart  beat  heavily. 

All  of  them  were  there.  Ellen  rose  at  once,  and 
came  up,  putting  her  arms  afiectionately  around  her 
neck. 

"I  am  so  sorry  to  lose  you,"  she  said.  "So  sorry 
that  any  trouble  should  call  you  away  thus  un- 
expectedly.   But  you  must  not  forget  us.  You 


840  '  ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 

have  been  a  kind,  good  friend,  and  we  will  love  you 
always." 

Ora's  grateful  tears  fell  fast  over  the  bright  young 
head,  laid  lovingly  against  her  neck  in  a  farewell 
embrace.  She  had  not  expected  this.  She  looked 
for  surprise,  distrust,  perhaps  anger. 

Mrs.  Kaymond  held  out  her  hand  and  kissed  her 
cheek.  She  looked  bewildered,  but  asked  no  ques- 
tions. Expressed  herself  grateful  for  the  kind  care 
her  daughter  had  received  at  her  hands,  and  bade 
her  remember  them  as  her  friends.  Mr.  Raymond's 
manner  was  less  cordial,  more  bewildered,  but  not 
distrustful.  The  leave  taking  was  not  half  so  bad  as 
she  had  feared,  and  she  took  Theodore's  arm  in 
inexpressible  relief,  when  he  presented  it, to  see  her 
to  the  cars. 

"  You  will  not  forget  your  promises,"  he  said 
gravely,  as  he  seated  her  in  the  carriage  and  placed  a 
card  in  her  hand, "  This  is  my  address,  and  be  sure 
to  let  me  know  as  soon  as  I  get  to  town,  y\^here  you 
are.  I  have  put  what  I  owe  you  in  this  little  purse. 
In  your  haste,  you  forgot  I  was  indebted  to  you,  and 
you  may  need  it.  Farewell.  Do  not  forget  I  am 
your  friend — always  your  friend  to  command." 

For  one  moment  he  held  her  hand  in  both  of  his, 
reluctant  to  say  good  bye.  But  time  was  up,  and 
why  detain  her  ?  Five  minutes  later  the  cars  were 
speeding  away,  and  he  stood  alone  under  the  quiet 
stars,  miserable,  half  bewildered,  and  heart-sick. 

When  he  returned  to  their  rooms,  all  were  eager 
for  an  explanation.  At  first  he  had  told  them  only 
that  sudden,  unexpected  and  distressing  news  had 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


341 


called  her  hence  immediately,  and  bade  them  control 
their  curiosity  till  she  had  gone.  They  must  ask  her 
no  questions.  He  would  explain  as  soon  as  he  could 
get  time.  Now  he  sat  down  quietly,  and  told  them 
in  distinct  terms  what  had  occurred,  and  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  enlist  their  feelings  in  her  favor.  He 
knew  it  was  best  to  give  them  the  truth.  An  excuse 
would  have  served  only  to  excite  suspicion.  So  the 
true  state  of  affairs  was  known,  and  the  Raymonds 
were  her  fast  friends. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Back  and  forth  beneath  the  trees  where  he  had 
stood  with  Ora,  paced  Theodore  Raymond.  The 
quiet  stars  looked  serenely  upon  him  through  the 
purpling  foliage,  and  a  low  wind  sighed  softly 
around.  But  there  was  peace  in  neither  for  his 
troubled  heart.  He  had  fathomed  the  mystery  at  last  I 
Had  it  brought  him  happiness  ?  Here  knowledge 
had  stabbed  him  with  a  stab  keener  than  the  blow 
of  an  assassin,  and  he  could  not  turn  and  resent  it. 
It  was  his  own  work.  He  had  wrung  from  her  in  her 
desperation,  that  which  the  proud  lips  for  yesprs 
refused  to  utter.  Poor  Ora.  No  need  to  be  told  that 
she  had  suffered.  He  could  read  a  whole  history  of 
woe  in  the  brief,  passionate  words  that  still  rang  in 
his  ears.  Her  look  of  inexpressible  misery ;  her 
passionate,  trembling  tones  haunted  him  as  a  night- 


342 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


mare.  He  felt  as  if  he  should  never  bo  able  to 
banish  them  from  his  memory. 

The  picture  he  had  seen  that  evening  as  she  rushed 
from  the  stranger's  room,  rose  up  before  him  a 
hundred  times  in  bitter  reproach,  as  his  footsteps 
beat  a  slow  and  regular  measure  to  his  stern  self- 
examination.  The  fair  and  beautiful  face  of  the 
woman  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway — the  red  lips 
wreathed  in  derision — her  low,  mocking  laugh  float- 
ing through  the  corridor — Ora's  choking  fear  as  she 
sprang  forward  like  a  hunted  deer — her  white  lips 
quivering — her  blue  eyes  wild  with  agony!  And 
yet  in  that  very  moment  he  had  confronted  her  in 
his  anger  and  resentment,  and  had  insulted  her  with 
an  accusation  humiliating  to  her  high  and  lofty  prin- 
ciples !  He  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  to  pieces 
for  having  uttered  such  words  to  her  at  that  mo- 
ment! The  remembrance  stung  him  till  he  ground 
his  heel  into  the  earth  in  passionate  self-reproach, 
and  denounced  himself  as  a  fool  and  pitiful  coward. 

Still,  the  revelation  of  this  night  had  proved  a 
blessing.  He  could  understand  and  appreciate  her 
now ;  and  he  could  also  see  the  ground  on  which 
he  himself  stood.  No  more  would  he  have  to  walk 
forward  blindly.  A  painful  light  was  suddenly 
thrown  across  his  path,  and  he  saw  that  it  led  through 
loneliness  and  gloom. 

Dawning  day  found  him  still  out  in  the  open  .air. 
He  felt  as  if  he  could  not  breathe  within  the  walls 
of  his  chamber.  So  he  sat  down  upon  a  bench  and 
watched  the  darkness  fade  away,  while  the  gray 
dawn  crept  slowly  over  slumbering  Nature,  and 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


34:; 


unsealed  lior  eyes  to  look  upon  the  glory  of  the  New 
Day. 

Brighter  grew  the  light  of  morning.  The  goldch 
sun  rose  majestically  and  Hushed  the  east  with  a 
crimson  glory,  spreading  his  bright  rays  abroad  ovci 
the  varied  scenes  of  earth,  and  lighting  them  into 
splendor  and  magnificence  beyond  the  power  oi 
mortal  to  express. 

A  long  time  he  sat  there.  The  hum  of  life  rose 
all  around  him  ere  he  rose  and  souglit  his  chamber, 
though  it  was  only  for  a  change  of  dress,  that  his 
friends  might  not  see  a  mark  of  carelessness  by 
which  his  night  vigil  might  be  betrayed. 

At  the  breakfast  hour  he  joined  his  family  as 
usual.  Little  was  said  except  about  their  return 
home.  Once  Ellen  reverted  to  Ora's  departure  and 
its  cause,  but  he  quieted  her. 

"  Remember  this  is  in  confidence,  Ellen,  and 
should  not  be  openly  discussed.  Nothing  but  a 
feeling  of  desperation  could  have  driven  her  to 
reveal  her  wrongs,  and  we  ought  not  openly  to  canvass 
them.  Think  what  you  will,  but  it  were  better  to 
say  nothing." 

She  accepted  the  reproof  silently  and  conversation 
turned  upon  other  topics. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Theodore,  as  he  rose  from  (lie 
table,  "  Have  you  any  objections,  any  of  you,  to  my 
romaining  for  the  evening  train?" 

"Why?"  asked  his  father. 

"  Because,  if  not,  I  prefer  to  go  on  to-night.  I 
have  some  little  things  I  want  to  do  before  I  go." 
I  cannot  imagine  what  you  have  found  just  at 


344 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


this  time  to  detain  you,"  remarked  Mr.  Raymond  in 
thoughtful  surprise.  You  were  ready  to  go  yes- 
terday." 

So  I  was,  father,  but  last  night's  event  has 
changed  my  plans.  It  is  connected  with  this  sudden 
departure  of  Mrs.  Meredith,  and  I  am  anxious  to 
stay  over  to-day  for  my  own  satisfaction.  You  will 
not  object?" 

"  Why,  no.  But  it  seems  you  take  a  great  deal  of 
interest  in  the  matter." 

"  Indeed  I  do,  sir.  Mrs.  Meredith,  besides  being 
a  lady,  and  a  kind,  faithful  friend  to  my  sister,  is  a 
lonely,  sufiering  woman,  and  I  would  befriend  her 
in  return  for  all  she  has  done  for  us.  She  needs  it, 
Heaven  knows." 

"  How  can  you  do  anything — what  can  you  do  ?" 
questioned  Mrs.  Raymond. 

"  What  circumstances  must  determine,  mother," 
he  replied,  gravely.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I 
propose  even,  now.  You  shall  learn  when  I  get 
home,  however.  You  can  go  on  this  morning.  I 
will  only  be  a  few  hours  behind  you.  My  baggage 
can  go  through  with  yours,  and  I  shall  not  be  troubled 
with  it." 

"  Kind  !"  laughed  Ellen.  "  All  the  baggage  you've 
got  would  harass  you  terribly.  It  is  well  to  shift  its 
responsibility  upon  us." 

"Then  I  am  to  understand  there  is  no  objection?" 
said  Theodore,  without  heeding  her. 

"None  of  consequence,"  replied  his  father.  "If 
you  want  to  stay,  do  so,  but  be  sure  to  come  on  the 
next  train." 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


34o 


Theodore  saw  them  started,  and  then  sauntered  off 
leisurely.  His  object  in  remaining  was  to  see  wliat 
strangers  arrived,  and  to  endeavor  to  find  out  whether 
Ora's  recreant  husband  was  really  coming  for  her 
rival. 

Only  three  came  on  the  morning  train.  Two  were 
gentlemen,  one  a  lady.  In  looking  over  the  register 
he  found  their  names :  "  A.  Scott  and  lady "  E. 
Piercelie."  Could  this  be  the  man?  If  so,  he  had 
assumed  a  name  to  cover  his  presence.  The  next 
thing,  however,  was  to  ascertain  which  one  of  the 
newly  arrived  gentlemen  bore  the  name,  and  direct 
his  observations  accordingly. 

A  little  while  later,  the  clerk  accosted  him  as  he 
passed  by  the  office. 

"Mr.  Raymond,  a  gentleman  has  just  been  en- 
quiring for  Mrs.  Meredith — did  she  return  with  your 
family? 

"  No.  She-  preceded  them.  Who  is  the  gentle- 
man?" he  asked,  feeling  assured  that  he  was  on  the 
right  track,  and  that  it  was  Ora's  recreant  husband, 
truly.  Yet  if  he  was  there  under  an  assumed  name, 
and  seeking  to  conceal  it  from  her,  why  inquire  for 
his  wife  as  soon  as  he  arrived.  Some  thought  of 
mischief  on  the  woman's  part  entered  his  mind,  but 
scarcely  had  time  to  form  itself  into  a  deJBnite  shape. 

"His  name  is  Piercelie,  and  he  is  a  stranger  just 
in,"  responded  the  clerk.  "  I  told  him  she  was  gone, 
and  promised  to  get  her  address  from  you." 

"  I  do  not  know  it,"  answered  Theodore,  quietly. 
"She  is  no  longer  in  our  family,  having  voluntarily 
withdrawn,  since  my  sister's  recovery." 


346 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"Then  yoi  cannot  give  me  the  information  he 
desires?" 

"  Of  course  not,  since  I  do  not  myself  know  where 
she  has  gone." 

"  Then  I  will  say  as  much  to  him,"  said  the  clerk, 
taking  up  his  pen,  and  Theodore  strayed  about  the 
office  for  sometime,  hoping  he  might  come  back  to 
make  further  inquiry.  Where  was  he  now?  Up 
stairs,  doubtless,  with  the  woman  he  came  to  see. 
''  The  witch  has  completely  enthralled  him,  I  sup- 
pose," he  muttered. 

The  day  passed  fruitlessly  as  regarded  the  success 
of  his  object.  No  further  inquiries  were  made,  and 
the  stranger  was  invisible.  The  time  was  fast 
approaching  when  he  must  give  over  his  watch,  and 
he  felt  annoyed  at  not  having  seen  Mr.  Piercelie, 
that  he  might  himself  judge  of  his  character  by  his 
face.  He  had  a  suspicion  that  the  woman  had  been 
playing  off  some  trick  on  the  poor  wife,  and  might 
not  have  uttered  the  truth — a  suspicion  the  inquiry 
of  the  morning  tended  somewhat  to  encourage.  But 
while  he  stood  musing  upon  the  matter,  the  light 
patter  of  footsteps  and  little  peals  of  laughter  behind 
him,  warned  him  of  the  siren's  preaence,  and  he 
looked  around  quickly. 

She  came  forward  habited  for  traveling,  leaning 
upon  the  arm  of  a  gay,  handsomely  dressed  young 
man,  whose  laugh  mingled  with  hers.  Theodore's 
hot  blood  boiled  as  he  saw  him  bend  his  head 
towards  her  witli  those  wreathing  smiles,  as  if  fear- 
ing to  lose  a  word  or  tone  of  her  voice.  Could  Ora 
ever  have  loved  a  man  like  that'?    Surely,  she  must 


OR  A,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


347 


have  been  beside  herself,  or  a  child  who  knew  not 
what  to  accept  as  worthy  a  true  woman's  devotion. 
He  was  one  of  the  most  insignilicant  of  bein^i^s, 
having  nothing  but  his  dress  to  recommend  him. 
His  face  was  insipid — his  drawling  tones  silly  ajid 
foppish.  "  Could  that  man  have  been  her  husband- 
once  loved  and  honored 

Another  lady  and  gentleman  followed.  "Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Scott,"  thought  the  young  man  as  they  passed. 
A  girlish,  gentle  face,  a  slight  figure  and  ladylike 
manners  w-ere  distinguishable,  while  the  gentleman, 
a  grave,  dignified  looking  man,  walked  at  her  side 
thoughtfully,  his  eyes  roving  about  aimlessly  over 
the  little  crowd.  He  had  no  eyes  for  them,  however. 
A  passing  glance  satisfied  him.  The  others  engrossed 
all  his  attention. 

He  got  into  the  same  car,  and  took  a  seat  near 
them.  They  still  laughing  and  chatting  gaily  about 
everything  but  her.  But  never  once  did  the  sound 
of  her  name  reach  him.  They  had  ignored  her 
existence.  Wrapped  up  in  themselves,  they  thought 
of  nothing  beside. 

At  Albany  he  lost  sight  of  them  when  they  entered 
the  boat,  but  he  had  seen  enough.  If  dim  resolves 
had  been  struggling  to  shape  themselves  in  his 
mind  before,  they  faded  now  utterly.  He  could 
never  expect  to  find  any  good  in  a  man  like  that, 
and  the  thought  of  a  reconciliation  in  which  he 
mig^ht  interest  himself,  in  case  Ora  had  been  de- 
ceived,  made  him  laugh.  Had  she  not  declared 
she  hated  him?  Well  she  might,  were  he  not  an 
<)bject  too  pitiful  for  so  strong  an  emotion.  He 


348  ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 

seemed,  to  his  prejudiced  eyes,  only  lit  for  scorn  and 
contempt. 

Three  or  four  days  passed  away  after  his  return, 
ere  Ora  fulfilled  her  promise.  Then  a  note  was  put 
into  his  hands,  which  informed  him  of  her  retreat. 
She  had  sought  a  distant  part  of  the  city,  where  she 
had  taken  refuge  for  a  few  days  until  she  could  find 
a  situation,  and  if  he  wished  to  see  her,  he  was  at 
liberty  to  call  at  any  time  suited  best  to  his  conve- 
nience^ 

He  lost  no  time  in  availing  himself  of  that  permis- 
sion, taking  Ellen  with  him  to  prove  their  continued 
friendship  and  interest,  and  to  show  her  how  earnest- 
ly he  meant  to  adhere  to  his  promise,  independent 
of  interested  motives. 

They  found  her 'looking  pale  and  wan.  Trouble 
was  telling  on  her  fast  now.  Her  tones  faltered 
painfully,  and  her  hands  shook  in  their  grasp  as  she 
greeted  them.  She  appeared  restless,  feverish,  and 
half  wild,  throughout  the  whole  interview.  Their 
fears  for  her  health  were  roused  at  once,  and  he  said 
decidedly : 

"  You  are  not  well,  and  must  come  home  with  us 
till  you  are  strong  again.  This  will  never  do.  We 
must  take  care  of  you.  It  is  only  right,  and  we  will 
hear  no  refusal." 

Ellen  joined  him  eagerly,  but  Ora  shook  her  head 
sadly. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  trespass  upon  you.  I  should 
be  an  intruder,  and  feel  worse  than  to  remain  here 
I  thank  you,  but  cannot  accept  your  kind  offer." 


OR  A,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


349 


"  Indeed  you  can,  and  must,"  asserted  Ellen,  posi* 
tively.  "  We  shall  all  be  glad  to  have  yon,  and  if 
you  fall  ill,  which  you  look  inclined  to  do,  I  will  bo 
your  little  nurse." 

"  But  how  would  your  mother  like  such  hasty 
arrangements,"  returned  Ora,  striving  to  speak 
lightly.  "  She  would  not  thank  me  for  usurping  your 
time,  I  feel  assured." 

"Not  thank  you!  She  will  feel  delighted  to 
think  I  am  making  some  return  for  what  you  did  for 
me.  Do  come  home  with  me.  I  will  take  nice  care 
of  you." 

"  Thank  you,  but  indeed  I  cannot." 

Ora  was  positive  now.  She  was  thinking  of  the 
time  when  she  had  sought  the  father's  aid,  and  he 
had  turned  her  coldly  from  him  without  even  a  word 
of  sympathy  or  encouragement.  She  felt  it  impos- 
sible ever  to  go  across  the  threshold  of  his  home 
again.  He  had  forgotten  her,  but  she  could  never 
forget.  Past  cruelty  had  left  its  sting.  Now,  even 
had  she  the  right  they  asserted,  she  would  not  accept 
his  hospitality. 

"  Suppose  you  should  fall  ill  here  amongst  utter 
strangers,"  said  Theodore,  still  urging  the  point. 
"  You  may  not  get  proper  attention." 

"  Then  I  can  die,"  she  answered  drearily.  "  After 
all,  it  would  be  the  sweetest  boon  I  could  ask.  There 
is  no  more  peace  for  me  here." 

"  Do  not  despair  thus,"  he  returned.  "  A  man 
like  the  one  you  called  husband,  is  not  vz-orth  such 
sorrow  as  you  feel.  He  deserves  only  your  con- 
tempt." 


350 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


She  looked  up  quickly,  a  crimson  flush  spreading 
over  her  paleface. 

"  Why  do  you  say  this  to  me  ?"  she  asked  haugh- 
til3\  "  You-  are  the  last  one  to  speak  disparagingly 
of  him.  I  should  think  some  delicacy  of  feeling 
would  seal  your  lips  on  such  a  subject." 

Do  not  mistake  me,  Mrs.  Meredith.  I  speali  only 
from  personal  observation,  without  any  other  motive 
than  to  comfort  you.  My  family  know  the  whole 
aff^air.  I  have  told  them,  that  you  may  be  justified 
and  befriended.  I  have  brought  my  sister  to  prove 
it  to  you,  and  assure  you  most  solemnly  I  had  no 
other  thought." 

His  tones  were  so  full  of  earnest  and  anxious 
meaning,  Ellen  was  puzzled  to  understand  them. 
Ora,  however,  bowed  silently,  and  nothing  further 
wa«  said  on  the  subject.  They  remained  but  a  short 
time  after  this,  and  Ellen  took  an  affectionate  leave, 
saying  she  would  come  again  very  soon. 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  Ora  went  to  her  room 
and  put  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak.  Every  day  since 
her  return,  she  had  visited  Ada's  grave,  and  she  waa 
going  to  it  now.  She  had  done  little  else  than  weep, 
and  brood  over  her  troubles,  and  half  the  time  it 
was  upon  the  little  mound  that  covered  all  she  loved 
on  earth. 

Drawing  her  veil  over  her  face,  she  wended  her 
way  to  the  Cemetery  sadly.  The  sexton  held  the 
gate  open  for  her  to  pass  in,  turning  to  look  after  her 
as  she  glided  among  the  tombs  to  that  little  grave  in 
the  distant  corner  beneath  the  trees.  She  had  mado 
her  last  visit  the  evening  previous,  and  had  knelt 


OR  A,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


351 


down  besido  the  simple  stone,  resting  her  hot  lace 
upon  the  narrow  block  of  marble  that  bore  the  one 
sweet  name  she  might  yet  utter  without  a  sting  of 
shame.  Now,  in  the  place  of  that  little  stone,  was  a 
handsome  head  piece,  surrounded  by  a  wreath  of 
half-open  buds,  and  bearing  upon  the  side  the  form 
of  an  angel  just  lifting  her  snowj'^  wings  towards  the 
heavens — its  burthen  the  spirit  of  a  little  child.  ^ 
Clear,  large  letters  standing  out  on  the  pure  surface, 
gave  tangible  utterance  to  the  cry  of  her  inmost  soul : 
"My  Lost  Ada."  Who  had  done  this?  What 
friendly  hand  had  placed  it  there,  and  hung  over  the 
top  a  festoon  of  natural  flowers  ?  Her  heart  swelled 
and  throbbed  tumultuously !  There  was  but  one 
person  who  could  have  remembered  her  dead.  That 
was  Theodore  Raymond.  What  had  prompted  him 
to  do  this?  A  simple  desire  to  gratify  her  most 
sacred  wishes  in  regard  to  her  child 

She  could  scarcely  think  in  her  surprise,  and  sat 
down,  bewildered  and  uncertain. 

"  Oh,  Ada !  Yes,  my  lost  darling,"  she  cried, 
bending  her  face  to  the  green  sod.  "  What  have  I 
left  to  me  now?  And  yet,"  she  added  desperately, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "  I  would  not  recall  you — 
no — not  for  worlds.  Even  in  my  loneliness,  I  thank 
God  that  He  has  spared  you,  my  little  blossom !  An 
angel  of  Heaven,  thou  wilt  wait  me  there,  my  baby ! 
At  least  there  is  something  to  look  forward  to  in  the 
future  !  An  hour  when  the  grave  shall  receive  me 
kindly,  and  we  shall  be  reunited,  never  to  part." 

"And  does  not  that  thought  comfort  you?"  said  a 
voice  near  her.  "  Surely  it  were  enough  to  strengthen 


352 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


US  ill  all  the  trials  of  life — that  meeting  beyond  this 
*  vale  of  tears'  where  there  shall  be  no  more  sorrow !" 

She  looked  up  to  find  Theodore  Raymond  by  her 
side,  his  hat  raised  reverently — his  noble  forehead 
bared  and  uplifted  toward  that  heaven  where  his 
eyes  seemed  to  seek  a  glimpse  of  that  land  he 
pictured. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Raymond !  you  here  ?"  she  faltered.  "  I 
did  not  know  you  were  near.  Yet  I  am  glad,"  she 
added  as  she  rose  to  her  feet.  ''I  wanted  to  speak 
about  this — "  pointing  to  the  head  stone.  "  I  am  so 
surprised  and  bewildered,  I  do  not  know  what  to 
think.    Was  it  you  who  did  it  ?" 

He  could  not  evade  a  positive  answer,  even  had 
he  wished  it  so  he  smiled  quietly,  and  replied  in 
his  frank,  earnest  manner  which  was  so  winning : 

^-  Yes,  it  was  I  who  did  it,  my  friend.  I  knew 
that  it  would  be  your  wish  to  arrange  something  of 
this  kind,  and  I  rightly  judged  that  you  would  come 
here  often.  The  day  I  came  home  I  selected  this  and 
had  the  lines  cut  in  it.  To-day  it  was  brought  here 
by  my  order,  and  placed  over  the  grave.  You  must 
forgive  me  the  liberty,  Mrs.  Meredith.  It  has  given 
me  much  pleasure  to  do  this  in  remembrance  of  one 
so  dear  to  you ;  and  I  felt  that  no  tribute  of  grati- 
tude on  my  part,  for  past  kind  services  from  you, 
could  be  as  acceptable  as  this." 

"  But  this  is  too  kind.  You  lay  me  under  obliga- 
tion for  so  much." 

On  the  contrary  you  must  allow  me  to  say  that 
it  is  I — and  all  dear  to  me,  who  are  under  obligation 
to  you." 


CRA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


353 


"  No,  no,  how  can  that  be  ?  You  have  paid  rtrio 
well  for  all  I  have  been  able  to  do — more  than 
paid  me  in  kindness  and  regard.  I  leel  over- 
whelmed with  this  favor.  Indeed,  I  wish  you  had 
not  done  it!" 

Her  look  of  distress  was  sincere  and  Theodore 
hastened  to  say : 

"Pray,  pray  do  not  look  upon  it  in  the  light  of  a 
favor.  I  have  done  it  as  I  would  have  done  any- 
thing for  Ellen  which  I  thought  would  gratify  her." 

She  was  not  satisfied.  He  saw  it  by  her  look,  and 
divined  something  of  her  feelings, as  she  stood  with 
the  air  of  uncertainty  and  bewilderment  which  had 
not  left  her  since  the  discovery.  It  was  a  delicate 
matter  to  venture  a  reference  to  the  past,  else  he 
would  have  assured  her  of  his  sympathy  apart  from 
his  love.  He  would  have  told  her  to  forget  that  he 
had  ever  made  the  declaration  of  a  warmer  sentiment 
than  mere  friendship,  and  in  trusting  his  truth  and 
honor,  allow  him  a  friend's  privileges. 

But  this  he  must  not  utter.  He  could  only  murmur 
a  sorrowful  regret  for  having  pained  her. 

"No,  no;  it  is  not  that,  exactly.  You  have  not 
pained  me — but  I  feel  perplexed  and  embarrassed. 
I  cannot  let  you  do  such  things  for  me.  I  could  not 
accept  gifts  like  this  from  you,  and  it  will  be  a  long 
time  ere  lam  able  to  pay  you  what  this  cost." 

"Pray,  say  no  more  about  it,"  pleaded  Theodore 
pained  beyond  measure  to  find  his  eSort  to  gratify 
her,  met  in  such  a  manner.  He  had  not  thought  of 
the  view  she  might  take  of  it,  when  he  obeyed  the 
impulse  lie  had  conceived,  to  have  the  tombstone 

30 


354 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


placed  there.  "  If,"  he  added,  "  you  ever  feel  able  to 
spare  the  trifle  I  expended  upon  it,  for  jour  own 
satisfaction,  I  will  not  refuse  to  take  it.  But  you 
must  give  yourself  no  trouble  or  inconvf^uience.  I 
may  never  want  a  dollar  of  it,  and  it  Wt^re  better 
used  thus,  than  lying  useless  or  thrown  away." 

I  thank  you,"  she  replied  giving  him  her  hand 
while  large  tears  coursed  slowly  down  her  cheeks. 
"You  are  so  kind  and  thoughtful,  I  ought  not  to  pain 
you  with  such  rebellious  pride.  Yet  I  cannot  help 
it.    Do  not  think  me  ungrateful." 

Gathering  shadows  were  advancing,  ami  fell  over 
the  sable,  robes  that  rustled  so  softly  near  him  ;  and 
as  he  looked  into  her  sad  face  and  felt  the  tremulous 
motion  of  the  little  hands  he  clasped,  a  longing 
impulse  to  drav/  the  poor  weary  head  upon  his  breast, 
rose  mightily  in  his  heart.  But  he  must  choke  it 
down — give  no  utterance  to  the  wish,  even  by  a 
sigh.  She  was  the  wife  of  another,  and  the  tie, 
though  false  and  cruel,  w^as  as  binding  as  though  she 
had  been  the  loved  and  loving  object  that  could 
make  the  union  between  them  perfect.  Must  this 
last  forever?  Must  he  always  stand  aloof,  loving 
her  with  his  whole  soul,  seeing  her  lonely,  and 
wretched,  and  not  permitted  to  comfort  her?  See 
her  toil,  and  not  be  able  to  relieve  her  of  care? 
Passionate  resentment  against  such  a  life  filled  his 
soul.  He  felt  that  he  must  speak  out  against  it.  It 
overmastered  every  thought  beside,  and  still  clasping 
the  tiny  fingers, he  gave  utterance  to  his  feelings, in 
spite  of  the  prudent  resolves  he  had  maintained  up 
to  this  last  moment. 


ORA,    THE    LOST    WIFE.  355 

"Mrs.  Meredith,  you  must  let  me  speak  to  you  a 
moment,  and  forgive  me  if  I  wound  you.  1  cannot 
bear  to  see  you  so  lonely  and  forlorn — imposing  upon 
yourself  a  sacrilice  too  great  for  the  cause  .that 
prompts  it.  Do  you  intend  always  to  adhere  to  such 
a  course  as  you  are  pursuing?  Will  you  let  one 
who  is  so  unworthy  of  a  single  thought,  poison  your 
whole  life  and  make  it  lonely  and^  miserable  ?  I 
would  not  dare  to  ask  it,  had  I  not  witnessed  his 
faithlessness  in  the  devotion  with  which  he  bent 
over  your  rival,  and  seemed  to  hang  upon  every 
word.  I  am  not  saying  this  to  bias  you.  It  is  only 
just.  Why  not  free  yourself — sever  all  this  forever, 
and  secure  to  yourself  a  peaceful  future  at  last, 
untainted  by  the  dread  of  his  persecutions.  It  is 
your  right." 

She  looked  at  him  wildly,  with  the  startled  air  of 
one  who  had  received  an  unexpected  blow. 

"  Free  myself,"  she  repeated.  Do  you  mean 
apply  for  a  divorce  ?" 

"  Yes.  Why  not  ?  He  is  no  more  your  husband, 
except  in  name,  than  if  he  had  never  seen  you.  He 
is  heartless — soulless — faithless.  He  is  a  clog  upon 
your  actions,  and  the  dread  of  your  existence.  You 
wrong  yourself  in  leading  such  a  life." 

"  A  divorced  wife  !  I,  a  divorced  wife  !"  She 
exclaimed,  shudderingiy.  "Oh,  no!  never,  never! 
Anything  but  that !  We  were  pledged  over  the 
dead.  Till  death  severs  the  tie  that  bound  us,  I  am 
his  wife  still  in  name,  if  not  in  heart.  It  does  not 
matter.  Why  should  I  wish  the  law  to  free  me? 
While  he  lived  I  could  never  mairy  another.  There 


356 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


could  1  e  no  other  advantage  in  freedom.    No,  no. 

Do  not  speak  of  it." 

''But  if  he  seeks  you,  and  claiming  you,  harasses 
your  life  till  it  becomes  a  burthen?  You  could 
secure  yourself  from  this.  Can  you  hold  thus  intact 
the  ties  that  bind  you  to  a  man  you  hate?" 

"  Yes,  sooner  than  break  a  vow  uttered  over  the 
dead  body  of  one  who  was  more  than  a  father  to 
me — sooner  than  stand  before  a  public  tribunal  and 
claim  justice  of  the  world,  while  its  cold,  cruel  eyes 
surveyed  me  in  doubt — perhaps  incredulity  and 
scorn !  Oh,  I  beg  you,  say  no  more.  It  is  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  follow  your  suggestions.  I  can  suJfler 
as  I  have  suffered — perhaps  die  in  the  eflbrt  to 
endure,  but  I  cannot  do  what  you  ask !" 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

The  next  day  was  stormy,  and  Ora  was  unable  to 
go  out.  The  wind  sighed  drearily  around  the  build- 
ings, and  the  rain  plashing  against  the  windows  made 
her  start  and  shudder,  when  she  remembered  how  the 
storm  was  beating  above  a  little  head  that  had  once 
lain  so  lovingly  against  her  bosom.  Each  day  as  it 
passed,  served  to  bring  renewed  longings  for  that 
precious  child  whose  release  had  been  a  blessing. 
While  her  judgment  told  her  that  it  was  far  better 
that  she  should  have  been  removed  from  a  world  of 
care,  her  poor  heart  in  its  solitude  craved  something 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


357 


to  fill  the  void  made  by  the  criishiug  out  of  every 
living  hope. 

She  had  lain  silently  upon  the  sofa  nearly  all  day 
long,  too  weak  and  indisposed  to  stir,  since  there  was 
no  possibility  of  getting  out.  A  little  fire  had  been 
kindled  in  her  grate,  arid  sent  a  bright  glow  through 
the  room,  but  its  light  showed  a  pale  and  wretched 
countenance  reposing  on  the  velvet  cushion — the  brow 
contracted,  and  the  lines  of  the  mouth  drawn  tightly 
in  an  expression  of  weariness  and  sufiering  very  pitiful 
to  behold. 

"  Ah!  if  the  end  would  but  come  !"  she  moaned 
inwardly.  How  can  I  bear  it  longer?  1  would  I 
could  die  !    Oh,  Father,  give  me  rest?" 

And  even  as  she  prayed,  the  end  "  was  drawing 
nigh — the  end  of  existing  circumstances. 

The  tinkling  of  the  bell  sounded  below,  and  she 
got  up  to  look  out.  A  carriage  wa^  drawn  up  before 
the  door,  and  she  could  see  that  some  one  stood  upon 
the  steps  waiting  admittance.  She  could  not  distin- 
guish the  person,  however,  for  the  umbrella  concealed 
him  almost  from  view. 

In  a  moment  a  knock  came  upon  her  door. 
Some  one  for  me,"  she  thought.    "  Who  can  have 
come  in  this  storm  ?" 

It  was  Theodore.  He  sent  up  his  card,  and  begged 
to  see  her  only  for  a  moment.  A  sickening  sensa- 
tion came  over  her. 

''Tell  him  he  must  excuse  me,"  she  said  to  the 
servant.  ''I  am  not  well  and  cannot  come  down. 
Oh,  why  does  he  persist  in  torturing  me  ?"  she  cried, 
throwing  herself  upon  the  sofa  again  with  her  face  in 


358 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


the  pillows.  Can  he  not  see  that  this  life  is  killing 
me  ?" 

The  servant  came  back  almost  immediately. 
He  says  he  is  very  anxious  to  see  you.     It  is 
important.    He  has  nev^^s,  and  can't  you  let  him  come 
up,  if  you  are  too  ill  to  come  down  ?" 

She  raised  both  hands  and  pressed  them  over  her 
brow  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

''Say  then  that  1  will  come  down,  Mary.  What 
can  he  have  to  say  now?  Oh,  1  wish  I  might  be  left 
in  peace,"  she  ejaculated  passionately,  as  the  door 
closed  on  the  girl. 

He  was  standing  by  the  mantel  as  she  came  in,  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  looking  anxiously  towards  the  entrance 
of  the  parlor.  Coming  forward  at  once,  he  held  out 
his  hand  and  said  feelingly: 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  are  indisposed.  I  should  not 
have  dared  to  intrude  upon  you  after  hearing  it,  but 
I  bring  you  news." 

"  News?  Of  what  nature  ?  But  why  need  I  ask  ? 
No  good  news  can  come  to  me  now." 

"  You  are  too  hasty.  I  think  it  is  good.  I  have 
found  some  of  your  old  friends." 

"My  old  friends?"  she  repeated,  "who  can  you 
mean  ?" 

"  The  Cliftons.  Why  did  you  not  tell  us  before 
that  you  knew  them  ?  I  met  the  doctor  to-day,  and 
learned  it  by  accident." 

Ora  had  flushed  crimson,  then  paled  again. 
Theodore  led  her  to  a  seat,  and  made  her  sit  down. 

"You  look  as  if  I  had  struck  you,"  he  said,  half 
smilingly.    "  Is  it  such  bad  news  to  know  that  I  have 


ORAj   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


discovered  where  you  used  to  live  before  1  knew 
you  ?" 

Do  you  know  all  ?"  she  faltered. 
"  Yes,  all.    You  are  a  brave  woman  to  bear  all  you 
had  to  suffer  there,  Mrs.  Meredith.    But  you  have 
long  been  justified." 

Justified,  did  you  say?  Oh, *Mr.  Eaymond,  then 
(hoy  at  last  believe  in  my  innocence !"  she  gasped, 
clasping  her  hands,and  looking  up  at  him  as  he  stood 
before  her. 

Yes,  and  have,  for  a  long,  long  time.  They 
sought  you  vainly  for  a  considerable  period  after  you 
left,  knowing  how  you  had  been  wronged.  They  are 
eager  to  assure  you  of  their  good  feeling.'.' 
How  did  it  all  come  about  ?"  she  asked. 
"  In  this  way.  When  Ellen  was  ill,  I  called  in  Dr. 
Clifton,  and  took  him  into  my  confidence.  He 
attended  her,  and  since  our  return  and  an  explanation 
of  affairs  as  they  now  stand,  has  been  to  see  us.  To- 
day I  met  him  again,  and  incidentally,  in  speaking 
of  my  sister,  mentioned  your  name.  He  caught  it 
instantly,  and  questioned  me  about  you  ,with  great 
interest.  The  whole  story  came  out  in  the  conversa- 
tion, and  I  learned  everything.  When  Guy  Bartoni's 
villainy  was  revealed,  they  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  had  been  aware  of  the  fact,  and  that  was 
the  cause  of  his  attempts  to  injure  you.  Was  it  not 
so  ?" 

'^Yes.  I  learned  by  accident  that  he  had  a  wife 
living  befoi-e  I  came  to  New  York.  He  feared  that  I 
would  expose  him." 

Which  you  should  have  done.    That  is  the  only 


360 


ORA     THE   LOST  WIFE. 


thing  the  doctor  blames  you  for.  He  thinks  you 
should  have  told  them  at  once." 

To  have  done  that  would  have  been  to  lay  open 
to  them  many  incidents  I  preferred  not  to  relate,  and 
I  could  not  bring  myself  to  do  it.  Besides,  I  was  a 
stranger,  unknown  to  them,  while  he  was  the  betrothed 
of  the  daughter,  and* had  every  advantage  on  his  side. 
What  right  had  I  to  expect  them  to  believe  mo  against 
him  ?  He  did  not  hesitate  at  falsehood  and  deceit 
when  it  served  his  purpose." 

"  At  any  rate,  he  could  scarcely  have  made  matters 
worse  than  they  became  in  the  end.  You  had  aright 
to  defend  yourself." 

Ora  said  nothing.  There  were  things  of  which 
she  might  not  speak  to  him,  even  in  excuse.  He 
continued  : 

I  have  some  further  news  for  you.  When  you 
are  able,  I  am  commissioned  to  bring  you  around  to 
see  poor  little  Agnes  Montes,  who  has  since  your 
departure  been  fast  fading  away.  She  loved  you 
better  than  any  one  on  earth,  the  doctor  says,  and 
her  whole  cry  is  for  you.  I  wanted  to  take  you 
to-day." 

"Aggie!  Is  she  then  so  ill?  Oh,  poor  child — 
dear  little  friend.  I  will  go  to  her  at  once !  She 
alone  clung  to  me  in  my  sorrow  and  distress  !  And 
all  this  time  she  has  never  forgotten  me !  Dear,  dear 
Agnes  !?' 

She  was  moved  strongly  now. 

"  Are  you  able  to  go  to-day  ?  Do  not  overrate  your 
ability,"  said  Theodore. 

Is  she  dangerously  ill  ?" 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


3G1 


"  Yes,  so  I  gathered  from  the  doctor." 

"Then  I  must  go  now.  I  will  not  think  of  myself. 
Wait  for  me.    I  will  not  keep  you  long." 

In  a  short  time  she  returned  well  wrapped  up,  and 
he  placed  her  in  the  carriage,  carefully  striving  to 
shield  her  from  the  rain,  which  was  still  falling.  She 
could  with  difficulty  realize  the  sudden  changes  she 
was  constantly  experiencing  now — they  followed  so 
rapidly  one  upon  another. 

They  were  expecting  her,  for  Dr.  Clifton  had 
arranged  with  Theodore  to  bring  her  that  day.  Lina, 
much  changed,  but  the  same  loving-hearted  being  as 
ever,  met  her  with  a  warm  embrace,  and  wept  freely 
as  she  held  her  to  her  bosom.  The  Doctor  held  both 
hands  and  looked  down  at  her  with  sympathy  and 
feeling  shadowed  forth  in  face  and  manner. 

''Fortune  still  buffets  you,  evidently,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  worn  to  a  shadow.  Welcome  back  to  peace 
and  res.t." 

She  could  not  answer.  Her  heart  was  too  full. 
Faces  and  objects  so  familiar  moved  her  beyond  utter- 
ance, and  she  could  only  clasp  the  friendly  hand,  and 
give  vent  to  her  feelings  in  tears. 

"  Oh,  how  much  we  have  thought  of  you,  how  much 
we  have  wanted  you,"  said  Madeline  as  she  led  her 
into  the  chamber  where  Agnes  lay.  ''This  poor 
child  has. been  wild  about  you.  We  had  to  tell  her 
that  you  were  coming,  to  quiet  her,  for  we  knew  the 
end  was  drawing  near,  and  her  pitiful  pleadings  nearly 
broke  our  hearts.  It  was  a  Providence  that  sent  you 
back  to  us." 

"  Oh,  what  a  pitiful  wreck  !" 

31 


362 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


Ora's  heart  ached  as  she  bent  over  the  little  form 
stretched  upon  the  bed,  and  felt  the  feeble  arms  twine 
about  her  neck,  as  a  glad  cry  broke  from  the  child's 
lips. 

A  wreck  indeed  !"  added  Madeline  almost  bitterly. 
''Oh,  it  seems  almost  incredible.  Our  whole  house- 
hold has  changed  !  You  have  heard  the  sad  story — 
Guy  dead,  and  by  my  brother's  hand — that  brother  a 
lonely  wanderer  and  exile  from  his  native  land.  It 
has  been  very  hard  to  sustain  life  with  all  this  misery 
to  contend  against.  And  now  Aggie  !  oh,  my  poor 
child  !" 

She  bowed  her  head  upon  the  pillows  and  sobbed. 
Long  suffering  had  nearly  worn  away  her  strength 
to  endure  patiently  these  successive  trials. 

Theodore  left  after  a  short  conversation  with  Dr. 
Clifton,  and  then  the  latter  came  up  stairs.  Mutual 
explanations  followed,  and  the  evening  drew  on 
rapidly,  ere  they  were  aware.  Ora  could  note  a  very 
great  change  in  every  member  of  the  family,  now  that 
she  could  regard  them  more  attentively.  She  had  not 
been  alone  in  her  sorrow.  Others  had  felt  the  weight 
of  its  heavy  hand  almost  as  keenly.  Even  wild, 
rattling  Kate  was  quiet  and  subdued,  her  young  face 
shadowed  with  a  thoughtfulness  that  was  saddening 
to  see. 

Seated  by  Agnes,  her  hands  clasping  the  frail  little 
palms,  she  told  them  her  own  story,  and  listened  to 
all  they  had  to  tell  her  in  return.  They  were  not  yet 
done,  when  a  summons  to  tea  interrupted  them,  and 
they  deferred  the  conclusion  till  afterward. 

''Don't  leave  me,  please,"  pleaded  Agnes  as  the 


OBA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


363 


summons  came.  ''It  has  been  so  long  to  wait,  I  cant 
have  yon  leave  me  now.    Ijet  thera  bring  it  up." 

"  Yes,  do,"  said  Madeline.  You  look  weak  and 
ill  yourself.  I  must  go  down  with  papa,  but  I  will 
send  yours  to  you.    Try  to  rest  a  little." 

Ora  suffered  them  to  do  as  they  wished,  and 
remained.    Agnes  drew  her  down  to  her  closely : 

"Oh,  I  am  so  happy  to  have  you  all  to  myself  a 
moment,"  she  murmured  as  they  went  out.  "  I 
wanted  you,  till  my  heart  broke  in  its  longing.  You 
don't  know  how  much  I  love  you,  or  "you  would  have 
come  back." 

But  I  have  come  back,  my  love,  and  now  you  will 
get  well,"  said  Ora,  cheerfully,  trying  to  keep  down 
her  tears  at  the  child's  sad  tones. 

"  No,  I  shall  not.  You  have  come  too  late  to  save 
me.  I  grieved  till  I  could  not  bear  it.  But  you  are 
here  to  say  good-bye,  and  I  am  so  glad  and  happy. 
I  can  thank  God  that  you  are  come.  I  tried  to  be 
patient,  but  I  could  not.  It  was  so  cruel  to  have  you 
wronged  and  driven  from  me.  I  was  a  wicked  girl 
then.  Oh,  you  can't  imagine  what  black  thoughts  I 
have  had  in  my  heart !  I  despised — I  hated  them  aJ 
for  what  they  had  done  !" 

But  you  don't  feel  so  now,  do  you,  Aggie  ?  That 
is  wrong." 

''No,  I  don't  feel  so  anymore.  I  felt  changed 
every  way,  after  awhile.  I  got  sorry  for  being  such  a 
trouble  to  those  who  were  so  kind  to  me,  and  tried  to 
be  good.  It  was  hard  to  do,  but  I  did  it  as  well  as  I 
could.  Everybody  had  so  much  trouble  I  tried  to 
forget  mine  and  help  them.    Lina  was  so  sorrowful, 


364 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


and  yet  so  patient  with  me  when  I  was  naughty,  I 
was  ashamed ;  and  after  awhile  I  grew  to  love  her 
dearly.  I  think  I  love  everybody  now,  and  I  did  not 
like  any  one  but  you  at  one  time.  I  wonder  why  it 
is  so  ?" 

"It  is  because  you  have  learned  to  understand 
things  better,  and  can  appreciate  the  kindness  and 
love  of  your  friends,"  responded  Ora,  smoothing 
back  the  black  tresses  from  the  child's  pale  brow. 

Do  you  think,  Aggie,  that  you  would  like  to  leave 
them  ?  You  said  just  now  yon  could  not  get  well. 
Are  you  afraid  to  die  ?" 

"  No,  not  afraid^  but  I  do  not  want  to  die  now.  I 
feel  as  if  I  would  love  to  stay  with  you  all,  but  it 
dont  matter  much.  I  am  not  like  other  girls,  and 
would  never  be  happy  like  them." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Because  I  feel  things  so  deeply.  They  hurt  me 
so  easily,  and  I  am  so  easy  to  get  angry  and  unhappy 
over  things  that  do  not  go  right  as  I  want  them.  If 
I  set  my  heart  on  anything  and  could  not  have  it — or 
do  it,  I  should  go  wild.  I  think  God  knows  what  is 
best  for  me,  and  that  is  the  reason  He  is  taking  me 
away." 

Was  this  a  little  child  talking  so  gravely  and  so 
earnestly,  resigning  herself  to  the  will  of  an  over- 
ruling power  without  murmuring  ?  Passing  from  the 
dawn  of  earthly  existence  into  the  mysteries  of  an 
unknown  world  fearlessly  !  What  a  beautiful  lesson 
in  the  example  the  child  was  teaching  as  her  young 
life  ebbed  away ! 

She  talked  to  her  till  the  others  came  up,  parta*:ing 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


365 


but  lig-itly  of  the  supper  brought  her  in  the  interval, 
^  and  afterwards  watching  with  them  till  late. 

Before  dawn  A'gnes  grew  weak,  and  continued  so 
the  following  day.  The  night  succeeding,  her  spirit 
passed  quietly  to  that  unknown  world,"  where  so 
many  Ora  had  loved  had  gone  before,  leaving  nothing 
behind  but  the  frail  casket  which  she  clasped  in  her 
arms  in  a  passionate  burst  of  grief.  One  more  tie 
was  severed,  never  to  be  united  again  on  earth. 


CHAPTER  XXXYL 

Another  week  went  round,  and  Ora  was  once  more 
installed  in  Dr.  Clifton's  household  as  of  old,  only 
now  she  was  understood  and  appreciated.  Had  Harry 
been  at  home,  she  would  never  have  gone  back,  but 
he  was  a  wanderer  for  an  indefinite  period,  and  she 
had  no  place  to  go  to,  and  the  asylum  offered  was  very 
tempting  in  her  sadness  and  loneliness.  There  was 
double  sweetness  in  the  kind  and  affectionate  treat- 
ment she  received,  now  that  the  stain  had  been  cleared 
from  her  name,  and  she  found  herself  more  than 
restored  to  their  esteem  and  love. 

One  evening  shortly  after  her  removal,  she  donned 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  taking  a  bouquet  of  late  flowers 
she  had  obtained  for  the  purpose,  she  wended  her 
way  to  Ada's  grave,  where  she  went  almost  every 
day.  A  singular  pleasure  always  awaited  her  there. 
She  loved  to  scatter  flowers  over  her  child's  resting 
place,  and  now  that  Aggie  was  laid  beside  her  at 


360 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


her  earnest  request,  she  was  drawn  to  the  spot  with 
a  feeling  as  if  she  was  going  to  meet  and  talk  with 
her  dear  ones.  It  was  after  four  o'clock  when  she 
arrived  at  the  Cemetery,  and  though  cool,  the  day 
was  clear  and  bright.  She  sat  down  upon  the  little 
mound,  green  and  beautiful,  strewing  her  flowers 
lovingly  over  it.  Then  she  dropped  her  face  upon 
her  hands,  and  soon  lost  herself  in  a  sad  retrospection 
of  the  past. 

At  length  a  heavy  sigh,  more  resembling  a  groan 
of  anguish,  caused  her  to  start  and  look  up.  Then  a 
smothered  cry  broke  from  her  lips,  and  she  half  rose 
to  her  feet  with  clasped  hands,  and  face  white  as 
death.  A  strange  form  was  towering  above  her,  an 
agitated  face, white  as  her  own,  pictured  against  the 
clear  sky  in  bold  relief. 

"  Nina,"  said  a  husky  voice,  Nina,  is  it  thus  we 
meet  at  last?" 

She  could  not  speak  or  move.  Like  one  frozen  to 
ice,  she  stared  at  him  in  her  terror  and  agony.  He 
repeated  again,  pleadingly : 

^'Oh,  Nina,  will  you  not  speak  to  me  ?  You  have 
not  forgotten.  I  see  that  you  know  me,  even  though 
long  years  of  suffering  have  changed  us  both." 

Aye  !"  now  broke  from  her  lips.  "  It  has  changed 
us — myself  particularly.  But  whose  work  was  it, 
Edward  Piercelie  !  Who  brought  that  suffering  upon 
us  both  ?" 

''It  was  I.  I  would  not  try  to  deny  it  if  I  could  ; 
but  may  not  years  of  remorse  and  penitence  wipe  out 
the  one  sin  and  error' of  my  life.  Oh,  Nina,  if  you 
knew  how  those  years  have  been  passed,  you  would 


ORA,   THE    LOST  WIFE. 


367 


pity  me — you  would  come  to  me,  and  giving  me  your 
hand,  say  in  your  own  sweet  childlike  way  as  of  old, 
"  Edward,  I  forgive  you." 

"  No,  that  cannot  be.  It  is  too  late.  Tiie  time  for 
such  words  has  passed.  They  were  sealed  upon  my 
lips  the  day  I  buried  my  daughter  here,  and  knew 
that  it  was  your  perfidy  which  had  opened  for  her 
an  untimely  grave  !  Had  you  been  true  to  one  of 
the  most  sacred  ties  of  nature— she  had  not  died 
amongst  strangers  without  food  or  medicine,  and  been 
forced  to  owe  her  very  resting  place  to  a  stranger's 
charity  !  Had  you  been  true,  I  had  not  fled  from 
your  home  and  become  a  wanderer — compelled  to 
labor  for  my  daily  bread — suffer  wrong  and  miscon- 
struction— be  insulted  with  suspicion,  and  become  the 
object  of  pursuit  for  base  and  soulless  beings,  to  whose 
mercy  you  consigned  me  when  you  cast  me  off  for 
another !  Oh,  how  can  I  remember  all  this,  and 
then,  because  you  come  to  me  and  say  you  have 
suffered,  say  that  I  forgive  you!  No!  I  will  never 
utter  the  words  !  You  may  suffer,  if  you  indeed  can, 
which  I  doubt.  Fresh  from  the  presence  of  her  for 
whom  I  was  abandoned,  I  cannot  believe  that  you  can 
come  to  me  with  any  other  feeling  than  to  devise  some 
new  mode  of  torture  for  my  future !  What  have  I 
done  that  you  should  thus  persecute  me?  Why  have 
you  followed  me  here?  Has  Alice  Murray's  fascina- 
tion lost  its  power?  Where  is  she  now,  that  you  are 
not  beside  her?" 

She  spoke  rapidly,  vehemently  —  passionately. 
His  tones  were  humble  and  yet  tender  as  he  endeav* 
ored  to  reply. 


368 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"  Nina,  why  wrong  me?  Surely,  if  I  have  sinned, 
it  is  not  to  that  extent  your  words  would  convey.  I 
know  not  wheie  Alice  Murray  is.  She  left  the  day 
after  you  lied,  and  from  that  day  I  never  saw  her, 
until  a  short  time  ago.  I  heard  of  her  at  times,  but 
held  no  communication.  When  you  left,  it  broke  the 
spell  she  had  woven  about  me,  and  I  was  a  miserable 
man — the  most  miserable  that  breathed  the  breath  of 
life.  I  sought  you  everywhere.  Our  neighbors  could 
tell  me  nothing — strangers  could  tell  me  nothing — no 
trace  or  clue  could  I  find  to  guide  me,  and  at  length 
was  forced  to  abandon  a  fruitless  search.  I  thought 
you  dead,  that  you  had  killed  yourself  in  your  misery, 
and  through  all  these  years  I  have  been  a  hei'mit, 
feeling  as  if  I  bore  upon  my  brow  the  mark  of  Cain, 
even  worse,  for  one  dearer  than  a  brother,  has  been 
my  helpless  victim.  It  was  but  a  little  time  since,  that 
I  heard  that  you  were  alive.  Alice,  traveling  North, 
accidentally  discovered  you,  recognized,  and  made 
inquiries  concerning  your  employments  and  position. 
She  wrote  me  a  letter,  telling  me  how  I  might  find 
you  at  Saratoga.  No  need  to  repeat  her  account. 
The  thought  that  you  were  alive  filled  my  soul  with  but 
one  desire,  and  I  hastened  there,  only  to  find  you  gone. 
I  tried  then  to  get  your  address,  but  failed.  They 
told  me  then  that  you  had  left  Mr.  Raymond's,  and  I 
knew  not  how  to  seek  you,  but  I  heard  that  he  resided 
here,  and  I  followed  hoping  for  some  intelligence.  I 
have  been  unsuccessful  until  now — must  have  been 
for  some  time,  probably,  had  I  not  seen  you  as  you 
cams  in  here,  and  recognized  you.  Oh,  Nina,  I  felt 
that  :n  the  sight  of  you  at  last,  God  had  answered  my 


ORA,   THE   LOST   WIFE.  3G9 


prayer,  and  ]  was  forgiven.  1  could  scarcely  reirain 
from  flying  to  you  and  clasping  you  in  my  armsl 
But  I  dared  not,  till  you,  too,  had  spoken  my  forgive- 
ness. Will  you  not  speak  it  now?  Will  you  not 
put  your  hand  once  in  mine?  I  ask  it  for  the  sake 
of  the  old  happiness  that  for  a  little  while  was  ours." 

He  advanced  and  held  out  his  hand,  his  whole 
frame  tremulous  with  emotion,  but  she  shrank  back. 

"  No,  I  cannot.  You  ask  too  nruch.  My  heart  is 
steeled  against  you.  I  loved  you  once,  with  a  love  as 
strong  as  death — I  would  have  died  to  prove  that  love, 
but  you  trampled  it  under  foot  as  worthless  !  Oh,  shall 
I  ever  be  able  to  forget  your  own  words  ?  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  you  said — how  you  told  her  you  had  never 
loved  me — called  me  a  silly  child,  and  deemed  me 
'  incapable  of  the  great  love  that  could  enrich  your 
life  !'  Do  you  forget  your  loving  protestations,  your 
kisses  and  vows  of  affection,  and  when  slie  pitied  me, 
bade  her  not  mention  my  name  !  Must  I  give  you  a 
history  of  what  I  suffered  then — how  with  my  heart 
breaking  I  went  to  my  room,  and  took  my  child  from 
the  roof  once  sacred — then  desecrated?  How  I  stole 
forth  in  the  night  and  walked  with  my  innocent 
burthen  to  the  nearest  station,  and  there,  unperceived, 
took  the  cars  that  bore  me  away  from  you !  How 
after  that,  I  labored  through  weary  months  of  toil  and 
study  to  make  myself  fit  for  some  situation  by  which 
I  might  keep  my  child  from  want?  Oh,  those  were 
bitter  days.  I  w^ent  to  a  little  southern  town,  and 
engaged  teachers.  I  took  my  most  valuable  jewels 
and  sold  them  that  I  might  have  the  means  to  live 
and  at  the  same  time  acquire  those  branches  of  know- 


370 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


ledge  I  required.  Labor  and  study  was  not  the  worst 
of  my  trials.  A  wicked  man  saw  my  loneliness  and 
persecuted  me  with  humiliating  attentions.  He  was 
a  musician,  and  1  took  lessons  of  him  in  singing. 
He  was  gentlemanly  at  first — then  patronising,  then 
familiar,  and  I  resented  it.  He  grew  angry  at  this, 
said  he  was  no  music  teacher,  but  a  gentleman  of 
leisure,  and  had  been  struck  with  my  pretty  face  and 
glorious  voice,  and  sought  thus  to  be  near  me  and 
win  my  interest.  Things  began  to  look  dark  at 
length.  Several  months  had  passed,  and  I  had  over- 
taxed myself  bodily  and  mentally.  I  fell  ill.  It  was 
then  that  a  little  child — a  boy,  was  prematurely  born, 
and  that,  too,  I  must  lay  up  against  you.  You  killed 
him,  Edward  Piercelie  !  Another  evil  grew  out  of 
this  !  That  man  found  it  out,  and  made  it  the  pretext 
of  suspicion  and  insult.  He  reported  maliciously 
that  I  had  been  false,  and  my  husband  had  cast  me 
oflf!  /,  mind  you !  Oh,  I  laughed,  even,  in  my 
bitterness  then,  to  think  how  /  was  slandered.  Am  I 
not  running  up  a  score  against  yon,  that  will  stand  a 
wall  of  adamant  forever,  between  us?  You  were  the 
cause  of  all !  None  of  this  had  come,  had  you  not 
driven  me  from  you  with  your  faithlessness.  I  did 
not  realize  it  all  then.  It  was  a  long  time  ere  I 
learned  to  look  upon  you  in  a  true  light.  I  even 
loved  you  till  Ada  sickened  and  died.  Then  my 
whole  soul  turned.  I  could  bear  no  more.  You  had 
stood  an  idol,  but  your  image  shattered  to  irreclaima- 
ble dust  over  her  tomb !  Then,  I  despised  and  hated 
you.  I  cannot  help  it.  I  have  cause.  The  toil  of 
years — the  poverty,  disgrace — death — all,  all  come 


ORA,   THli   LOST  WIFE. 


371 


between  you  now  and  one  sojftenin^^  emotion.  1  will 
never  forgive  you — never  !  Go  !  leave  me  in  peace  I'^ 
Nina,  Nina !  have  pity !  Do  not  bslj  that  you 
will  7iot  forgive  me.  Take  time,  consider,  but  do  not 
condemn.  I  am  not  as  gailty  as  you  deem  me  !  Oh, 
I  cannot  bear  to  live  on  unforgivcn.  Here,  over  the 
body  of  our  dead  child,  I  plead  for  pity  )" 

Aye  !  murder  her,  then  turn  to  the  heart-broken 
mother  and  crave  pardon  for  the  deed.  Bring  up  the 
other  also,  and  make  him  a  plea  too  !  You  murdered 
them  both,  and  I,  their  mother,  may  listen  to  you  when 
you  bid  me  pity  you  in  remembrance  of  them." 

She  laughed  a  wild,  bitter  laugh.  Excitement  had 
turned  her  brain,  almost.  Her  feelings  had  risen  till 
reason  was  overpowered.  She  could  think  of  nothing 
in  this  hour  but  a  long  catalogue  of  woes,  and  it  had 
steeled  her  heart  against  him.  He  now  stood  shaking, 
with  bowed  head,  before  her. 

"  I  can  bring  no  justification  but  my  deep  peni- 
tence," he  murmured  chokingly.  "Will  it  have  no 
weight  with  you  ?" 

She  lifted  her  hand  with  an  imperious  gesture,  cold 
incredulity  and  scorn  stamped  upon  her  haughty 
face. 

I  have  no  faith  in  your  penitence  !  You  tell  me 
that  through  all  these  years,  you  have  been  a  misera- 
ble hermit  bexieving  me  dead.  You  say  accident 
discovered  me  to  Alice  Murray,  and  she  wrote  you. 
When  you  fly  to  find  me,  but  learning  after  one 
brief  inquiry  that  I  have  left  the  place,  you  turn  and 
devote  yourself  to  Alice  as  of  old.  Why,  if  you  bring 
to  xn.G  a  penitent  heart,  did  you  not  prove  it  in  your 


372 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


actions  You  did  not  leave  her  side  all  day.  You 
took  her  upon  your  arm  at  starting  from  the  place, 
and  hung  upon  her  every  word.  In  the  cars  you 
ignored  any  other  existence  but  hers — were  blind  to 
everything  bat  her  presence.  But  now,  liaving,  as 
you  thought,  escaped  observation,  you  hunt  me  down, 
and  bring  a  false  protestation  of  penitence.  Sir,  what 
can  be  your  object  in  this  ?" 

He  looked  like  one  amazed,  and  could  with diBSculty 
comprehend  her  meaning. 

I  cannot  understand  you,"  he  replied  at  length. 
"  I  have  never  been  guilty  of  what  you  impute  to  me. 
Some  one  has  deceived  you,  but  how,I  cannot  imagine, 
or  for  what  purpose.  There  is  no  one  who  knows  me, 
that  I  am  aware  of,  in  this  part  of  the  country.  And 
if  I  had  been  seen  and  recognized,  it  would  not  have 
been  in  such  a  way  as  you  name,  engaged.  I  saw 
Alice  when  we  left  Saratoga,  but  she  was  not  on  my 
arm.  After  a  short  interview  that  morning,  I  did 
not  see  her  all  day.  I  was  in  my  room,  too  ill  to  stir, 
I  was  too  thoroughly  unmanned  by  disappointment 
to  do  anything  till  the  cars  started.  When  at  last, 
the  weary  day  came  to  a  close,  and  I  went  down,  I  met 
Mr.  Scott,  his  sister,  and  Alice.  They  were  in  the 
White  Mountains  all  summer,  and  had  got  as  far 
as  New  York  on  their  return,  when  they  learned 
that  Alice,  instead  of  joining  them  there  as  arrange- 
ments had  been  made  to  do,  had  stopped  at  Saratoga, 
and  they  returned  for  her.  The  party  she  was  with, 
had  gone  on,  and  she  telegraphed  them  for  their  escort 
Borne.  The  lady  on  my  arm  was  Miss  Scott — the 
gentleman  with  Alice,  her  brother,  whose  wealth  ia 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


373 


sufficient  attraction  without  the  wit,  which  he  lacks  in 
a  sad  aegree.  She  married  him  in  this  city  as  they 
went  through,  and  you  might  have  seen  the  notice  in 
the  papers  had  you  looked  ;  and  by  this  time  they  are 
home.  Believe  me,  it  was  not  I,  as  you  have  been 
led  to  believe,  who  was  by  her.  Who  could  have 
mistaken  him  for  me  ?" 

"  It  was  no  mistake.  A  friend  informed  me,  who 
is  incapable  of  falsehood,"  she  replied,  still  incredulous 
seemingly  to  every  assertion. 

"Then  you  will  not  believe  me?" 

''No.  If  I  did,  I  should  still  be  as  far  from  a  dis- 
position to  listen.  I  have  no  fancy  to  be  lenient,  because 
Alice  Murray  may  have  cast  you  off  for  a  new  face 
and  fortune.  Tou  could  not  marry  her,  and  she  has 
thought  more  prudently  of  her  course,  and  has  wisely, 
if  you  speak  truth,  married  a  fool.  She  does  not  de- 
serve even  such  good  fortune  as  to  have  a  fool  for  a  hus- 
band, but  may  save  herself  by  attaching  him  to  her." 

Will  you  not  tell  me  who  this  friend  was,  who  told 
you,  he  said,"  unheeding  her  last  remark. 

"  No,  what  does  it  matter  f  I  believe  him  ;  that  is 
sufficient.  I  repeat  that  he  is  incapable  of  falsehood, 
and  I  know  you  differently." 

''  It  was  a  gentlemen,  and  one  whom  you  regard  with 
deep  interest,"  he  faltered  brokenly.  "  Perhaps  one 
you  love,  and  that  is  what  has  hardened  you.   Is  it  so?'* 

She  was  silent. 

"  Is  it  true  ?"  he  cried,  passionately,  and  must  I 
leave  you — unloved — unpitied—  unforgiven  !  Will 
you  have  no  pity  !" 

"  Go !"  she  simply  uttered. 


374 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


His  hand  was  slowly  uplifted,  and  pressed  his  fore- 
head as  if  a  blow  had  fallen  upon  it  and  he  w^ould  easo 
the  pain  by  the  action.    His  face  was  pallid  as  marble. 

Oh,"  he  groaned  bitterly.  I  am  justly  punished, 
but  I  cannot  bear  it.  Oh,  Nina,  Nina,  my  wife,  come 
back  to  me — believe  me — pity  me  !  I  have  told  you 
but  truth  !  By  all  my  hopes  of  heaven  I  swear  it. 
Do  not  cast  me  ofi*  so  hopelessly.  At  least  say  one 
word  of  forgiveness !" 

"  I  have  said  what  I  mean.  Go,"  she  articulated 
in  cold,  measured  tones. 

I  cannot, till  you  say  at  least  you  will  try  to  forgive 
me.  Nina,  I  have  wronged  you  bitterly,  but  net 
enough  to  justify  you  in  unforgiving  hatred  of  me.  I 
cannot  go  down  into  my  grave  in  peace  till  you  have 
pardoned  my  sin." 

Still  immovable  as  marble  !  Had  she  been  of  stone 
she  could  not  have  appeared  more  unfeeling,  and  as 
her  iciness  increased,  his  excitement  rose  in  proportion. 
He  was  almost  wild  and  incapable  of  self-control. 

"  You  have  learned  to  be  inhuman,"  he  cried  vehe- 
mently, ''else  you  could  not  listen  to  me  so  totally 
unmoved.  Nina,  if  you  have  one  spark  of  feeling 
left,  I  pray  you  hear  me  for  the  last  time.  Let  me 
tell  you  again  how  I  suffered,  and  how,  when  I  gained 
tidings  of  you,  I  hastened  with  a  wild,  glad  hope  in 
my  heart,  to  call  you  mine  once  more.  Once  you 
were  so  gentle  and  forgiving,  a  word  would  have 
restored  me  to  your  confidence  and  love,  and  remem- 
bering this,  though  my  sin  was  deep,  is  it  a  wonder 
if  I  hoped  to  win  you  back  when  I  had  confessed  my 
wrong  freely  and  offered  you  more  than  the  devotion 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


375 


of  a  life  in  expiation.  I  would  be  your  shtvo,  any- 
thing you  wished,  only  for  the  happiness  of  hearing 
you  speak  one  forgiving  word.  Oh,  speak  it,  speak 
it,  I  implore  you,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  lest  I  go 
mad  !  Nina,  I  am  a  man  no  longer,  but  a  child, 
dying  at  your  feet,  with  the  agony  you  inflict !  If  you 
will  not  i^itj  me,  think  of  yourself.  Will  you  ever 
know  peace  again,  when  still  without  a  word  of  pity, 
you  see  me  borne  to  my  grave,  and  know  that  your 
hand  sent  me  there  ?" 

Her  lip  curled  scornfully.  Was  he  in  hopes  of 
gaining  anything  by  working  on  her  fears?  Her 
lime  had  come  now.  Had  she  a  desire  for  revenge, 
she  could  ask  for  no  more  power  to  inflict  it  than  at 
this  moment,  and  the  desire  that  had  taken  temporary 
possession  of  her,  urged  her  on  to  its  completion.  A 
sarcastic,  scornful  laugh  grated  upon  his  ear,  and 
she  said  derisively : 

"  Go  on,  Edward  Piercelie.  You  improve  wonder- 
fully. You  would  make  a  fine  tragic  actor.  You 
have  such  a  fine  flow  of  words,  and  could  so  easily 
take  hold  upon  the  feelings  of  a  '  susceptible ' . 
audience.  I  regret  that  I  cannot  enter  into  the  spirit 
of  your  touching  address  more  fully.  Unfortunately, 
your  early  lessons,  and  long  contact  with  trying 
scenes  in  daily  life,  haverendered  me  impervious  to 
such  emotions  as  you  would  excite  in  a  less  expe- 
rienced person." 

"  Then  farewell,"  he  uttered  with  a  sudden  efi'ort  at 
calmness.  "May  you  never  plead  at  God's  mercy 
seat  as  vainly  for  forgiveness,  as  I  have  plead  with 
you." 


376 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


He  tun.e  1  his  face  from  her,  and  for  one  moment 
bent  his  knee  beside  the  grave  of  his  child.  His 
pale  lips  moved,  as  if  in  prayer,  and  then  lifting  a 
ilower  from  the  mound  which  she  had  so  lately  scat- 
tered there,  he  placed  it  in  his  bosom  reverently,  and 
with  one  last  look  of  unspeakable  sorrow,  he  mur- 
mured again  a  sad  farewell  as  he  turned  away. 

"  Farewell,  Nina,  once  my  wife,  now  lost  to  me 
forever.  FarewelL  You  will  never  be  troubled  with 
me  more." 

He  went  away  slowly,  turning  but  once  before  he 
reached  the  gate,  and  looking  back  as  if  in  hopes 
she  would  relent  and  recall  him.  But  she  stood  still 
and  unmoved,  and  he  disappeared  through  the  gate. 

As  he  passed  from  her  sight,  something  like  pity 
stole  into  her  heart.  A  slight  revolution  of  feeling 
made  her  sink  back  with  a  moan  upon  the  mound, 
and  resting  her  forehead  against  the  cold  marble, 
breathe  a  half  articulated  prayer : 

"  God  forgive  me  if  I  have  sinned." 

She  did  not  heed  the  passage  of  time,  and  it  sped 
swiftly  away.  It  was  night  before  she  was  aware. 
She  was  startled,  at  length,  when  she  looked  up,  to 
see  how  dark  it  was  growing,  and  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
rose  and  drew  her  mantle  around  her. 

She  found  the  gate  of  the  cemetery  locked  when 
she  reached  it,  and  was  forced  to  ring  the  bell  before 
she  could  get  out.  The  sexton  came  out  of  his  little 
cottage,  looking  surprised  at  sight  of  her. 

'^I  thought  you  had  gone,  when  I  closed  and 
locked  the  gate,"  he  said,  but  without  answer  she 
went  out  silently,  and  turned  her  steps  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


SlotV-.y  and  sadly  she  ascended  to  her  chamber, 
when  she  reached  Dr.  Clifton's.  Madeline  came  up 
to  her  almost  immediately. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
growing  so  uneasy  about  you.  You  are  too  weak  to 
venture  away  from  home  so  long.  I  will  not  let  you 
do  it  in  future." 

The  kind  hearted  girl  went  and  put  her  arms 
around  h^r  affectionately,  and  Ora  dropped  her  head 
against  her  bosom,  a  feeling  of  grateful  emotion 
and  remorse  contending  in  her  breast.  The  sad 
tones  of  that  last  farewell  were  ringing  now  in  her 
ears,  and  had  stirred  again  the  frozen  fountains  of 
her  better  nature.  Already,  in  the  brief  space  of 
time  she  had  to  reflect  upon  what  had  passed,  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  tell  him,  if  they  should 
meet  again,  that  she  forgave  him.  But  that  was  all 
she  could  do.  Receive  him  again  in  confidence — 
restore  him  to  her  affection  was  impossible.  Noth- 
ing but  the  dead  ashes  of  the  old  love  remained  in 
her  heart.  She  would  not  even  try  to  rekindle  the 
flame,  were  it  in  her  power.  He  had  said  truly,  that 
she  was  "  lost  to  him  forever." 

"  Are  you  ill  ?"  asked  Lina,  anxiously,  as  she 
received  Ora's  weary  head  and  lovingly  stroked  back 
(377)  32 


378 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


her  hair.  "  You  are  either  sick  or  very  tired. 
Which  is  it?" 

"  Both  sick  and  tired,  dear  Madeline.  Life's  trials 
will  never  have  an  end  but  in  the  grave,"  she  replied, 
drearily.   "  Oh  !  dear  !" 

"Why,  what  has  happened?"  said  Lina,  really 
beginning  to  feel  alarmed. 

Ora  lifted  her  white  face  with  a  momentary 
expression  of  its  former  stony  bitterness. 

"He  has  followed  me  here — followed  me,  and 
found  me  out  at  last.  He  has  oven  ventured  to  stand 
upon  the  sacred  ground  hallowed  by  the  remains  of 
his  innocent,  helpless  victim — desecrating  it  by  his 
presence  !" 

"Whom  can  you  mean?  Not  your  husband, 
surely !" 

"Yes,  whom  else  should  I  mean?  Oh,  Lina,  I 
have  borne  much,  and  still  live,  but  I  can  endure  no 
more.  If  the  cords  of  life  do  not  snap  under  the 
pressure,  I  shall  certainly  go  mad  !" 

"Where  is  he  now  ?"  asked  Madeline  in  a  subdued 
and  tremulous  tone.  "  He  will  not  trouble  you  again, 
I  hope." 

"Perhaps  not!  He  said  he  would  not,  but  I  can 
scarcely  believe  him.  He  will  be  coming  back  again 
soon.    I  expect  it." 

What  did  he  say  ?  Did  he  urge  anything  in 
justification?    Was  he  penitent?" 

"  Yoii  would  have  thought  so,  had  you  heard  him. 
I  did  not.  If  he  has  any  feeling  left,  he  is  now  learn- 
ing to  understand  what  he  made  me  suffer.  He  is 
receiving  his  reward." 


ORA,    THE    LOST  WIFE. 


379 


"  Why,  how?"  asked  Lina,  not  comprehetiding  her 
meaning. 

"  I  refused  to  forgive  him.' 

Madeline's  face  became  very  grave  and  sad. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Meredith,  this  is  unlike  you,"  she  ven- 
tured. "  Christ  did  not  refuse  it  to  the  most  guilty 
— will  you  be  more  severe  than  your  Divine  Master 
in  your  condemnation  ?" 

"  Lina,  would  you  have  me  take  him  back  again  ?" 

"  No,  not  if  faith  is  shattered — love  dead — as  I 
believe  them  to  be.  But  you  can  forgive  him 
still" 

"Yes,  I  do  now.  Then,  over  the  grave  of  my 
child,  and  remembering  all,  I  could  not.  Oh,  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  die  with  this  weight  upon  my  heart," 
she  added,  dropping  wearily  upon  a  sofa.  "  When 
shall  1  know  rest?" 

Madeline  sat  down  by  her,  seeing  her  state  of. 
mind,  and  taking  her  hands  in  her  own,  drew  from 
her  a  narrative  of  the  scene  in  the  Cemetery.  It 
touched  her  to  the  heart.  She  could  not  blame  Ora, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  pitied  the  man  whose 
errors  had  wrecked  the  lives  of  both  so  sadly.  She 
believed  him  to  be  sincere  in  his  repentance. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  thought  hopefully, "  all  may  yet  be 
right." 

Two  or  three  days  passed  away,  before  Ora  again 
ventured  to  the  Cemetery.  She  feared  to  meet  Mr. 
Piercelie,  who,  she  could  but  believe,  would  seek 
her  again.  When  she  did  go,  it  was  early  in  the 
morning,  and  Lina  accompanied  her.  The  latter  went 
to  give  some-  orders  about  Agnes  Montes'  grave,  and 


3S0 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


this  was  a  good  opportunity.  She  feared  to  let  her 
go  alone. 

The  gate  was  unlocked  already,  and  they  went  in 
without  ringing.  The  sexton  was  at  the  farthest  side 
of  the  Cemetery  from  them,  seemingly  very  busy, 
and  they  sent  a  boy  who  was  playing  about  the 
cottage  door,  to  say  that  they  wanted  to  see  him. 
Lina  waited  till  he  should  receive  the  message,  while 
Ora  walked  across  to  their  lot. 

A  few  moments  later,  a  piercing  scream  rang  out 
upon  the  air.  Madeline  turned  her  head  just  in 
time  to  see  Ora  throw  up  her  hands  and  then  fall  to 
the  ground  upon  her  face.  Terror  for  an  instant 
deprived  her  of  motion,  but  in  a  moment  she  recov-~ 
ered  self-possession,  and  hastened  to  the  spot,  the 
sexton  following  her. 

Ora  lay  as  one  dead,  close  to  a  strange  form 
stretched  out,  face  downward,  upon  the  grave.  It 
was  a  stranger,  but  instinct  told  her  who  he  was — 
the  unfortunate  husband.  A  phial  was  lying  empty 
close  by,  labelled  laudanum,  and  the  hand  exposed 
to  view  had  grasped  a  small  slip  of  paper  which 
must  have  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  lay  upon  the 
ground  just  beneath.  With  a  beating  heart  she 
stooped  and  picked  it  up,  reading  the  lines  traced 
there  with  tumultuous  emotions  of  pain  and  pity: 

"  Nina,  I  cannot  live  without  you,  and  have  come 
here  to  die.  Perhaps  you  will  forgive  me  when  you 
find  how  I  have  expiated  my  sin,  and  believe  in  my 
remcrpe  I  implore  you,  let  me  be  buried  here  with 
our  child— it  :^  all  I  ask."  Madeline  let  fall  the 
paper  trembling  in  every  limb. 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


381 


"Why,  what  is  this  ?"  said  the  sexton,  now  coming 
up.  "I  declare,  it  is  the  man  who  came  here  last 
night,  and  stone  dead  now!" 

''Yes,  quite  dead,"  assented  Madeline,  bending 
down  to  touch  the  cold  hand.  "  And  she  is  nearly 
as  lifeless — "  now  lifting  Ora's  head  upon  her  lap, 
and  beginning  to  chafe  her  hands.  "Do  get  some- 
thing quickly — some  water." 

"I  will.  Do  not  touch  the  dead  body.  No  one 
must  till  the  proper  authorities  are  informed.  I  will 
be  back  in  a  minute." 

He  hastened  away,  and  in  a  short  time  returned 
with  water,  which  they  dashed  over  her  face  tiL 
consciousness  returned.  But  it  was  only  for  a 
moment,  and  then  she  sank  down  heavily,  with  a 
deep  moan,  and  relapsed  into  insensibility. 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  exclaimed  Madeline, 
seeing  .  how  hopelessly  matters  were  becoming 
involved.  "How  shall  I  get  assistance,  and  take 
her  home  ?" 

"  We  must  get  her  to  the  cottage  noAV,  and  send 
for  a  carriage  afterward,"  replied  the  man,  taking  her 
up  in  his  arms  as  he  would  a  child.  "  Come,  I  will 
take  her  to  the  house,  and  my  wife  will  help  you." 

As  quickly  as  possible,  Madeline  despatched  a 
hurried  note  to  her  father,  bidding  him  hasten  to 
her  immediately.  With  all  their  efforts  they  failed 
to  restore  Ora  again,  and  she  became  terrified  with 
the  thought  of  death.  But  it  seemed  an  age  after 
the  messenger  started  before  the  Doctor  arrived,  and 
then  with  the  first  glance,  the  ominous  expression 
of  his  face,  seemed  to  confirm  her  fears. 


382 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


"Papa,"  she  whispered  anxiously,  "What  is  it? 
Is  she  in  danger  V' 

Her  father  stood  for  a  moment  holding  the  wrist 
of  the  patient,  and  when  he  did  speak,  it  was  to  ask: 

"  How  did  it  happen !  The  messenger  could  give 
me  no  satisfaction,  and  your  note  explained  nothing. 
How  was  she  attacked  ?" 

Madeline  related  briefly  how  she  had  preceded 
her,  and  how,  being  alarmed  by  her  shriek,  she  had 
turned  to  see  her  fall,  and  on  hastening  to  her,  had 
found  her  as  one  dead  beside  the  grave  on  which 
was  stretched  the  lifeless  form  of  the  miserable 
suicide. 

"  Bad,  bad !  We  must  get  her  home,  my  daughter," 
said  the  Doctor,  at  the  close.  "The  shock  has  com- 
pletely prostrated  her  nervous  system." 

Reader,  we  pass  rapidly  over  an  interval  of  time 
it  were  painful  to  dwell  upon.  The  inquest — the 
verdict  of  suicide — the  burial  of  the  penitent  hus- 
band who  had  expiated  his  sin  with  his  life.  They 
laid  him  beside  the  littl§  child,  as  he  had  plead  to  be 
laid  there  in  his  dying  hour,  and  the  green  grass 
wrapped  father  and  daughter  in  one  common  mantle 
of  living  beauty. 

A  year  has  passed  away  since  the  morning  on 
which  he  was  found  dead,  and  the  revolving  wheel 
of  Time  has  turned  up  to  light  new  scenes,  while 
the  old  ones  slowly  fade  from  the  eye. 

Harry  Clifton  is  still  in  Europe,  but  he  writes 
cheering  letters  that  bring  roses  of  happiness  into 
the  fair  cheek  of  his  gentle  sister.    He  means  to 


ORA,   THE   LOST  WIFE. 


383 


come  home  s  on,  and  bring  a  pretty  little  wife,  of 
whom  he  speaks  glowingly.  He  has  not  forgotten 
the  old  love,  but  he  has  considered  it  wisely,  and 
mastered  it,  to  give  place  to  one  more  propitious  of 
future  happiness. 

Araono;st  those  of  our  friends  whose  interests  have 
been  linked  with  Ora's  throughout  this  story,  we 
lind  few  changes.  A  new  governess  is  in  the  old 
phice  at  Dr.  Clifton's,  and  the  usual  routine  of  life 
goes  on  stea  lily.  Ora  has  been  to  her  old  home  in 
the  South,  and  has  disposed  of  all  the  property  once 
belonging  to  Edward  Fiercelie.  It  alibrds  her  all 
she  wants  for  future  comforts.  No  need  now  of 
labor  and  toil.  Surrounded  by  her  friends,  she  is 
resting — not  in  peace,  but  in  patience.  Remorse  is 
in  her  heart,  that  she  cannot  stifle.  The  one  hard, 
cruel  act  of  her  life  she  could  not  forget.  She  had 
denied  a  word  of  forgiveness  to  a  suflfering  soul  that 
had  rashly  sought  its  Creator  with  the  heavy  weight 
of  sin  upon  it,  and  now  she  would  give  her  existence, 
but  for  one  moment  of  life,  in  which  to  set  the  longing 
spirit  at  rest. 

But,  too  late  now !  she  can  only  pray  for  pardon, 
and  endure  meekly  her  punishment. 

Look  once  more  upon  her,  reader,  ere  the  curtain 
falls.  She  is  sitting  in  the  bay  window  at  Dr.  Clifton's, 
the  light  falling  upon  her  pale,  delicately  chiseled 
features.  Short  rings  of  hair  cluster  all  around  her 
head,  which  has  been  shorn  of  its  wealth  of  trasses, 
and  gives  her  a  much  more  girlish  look  than  of  old. 
She  is  still  in  the  habiliments  of  deep  mourning,  and 
refuses  to  soften  the  solemn  color  by  one  tint  of  a 


384 


ORA,    THE   LOST  WIFE. 


brighter  hue,  though  Madeline  has  more  than  once 
ventured  to  urge  it. 

While  she  sits  there,  Theodore  Raymond  is  an- 
nounced, and  enters  as  an  old,  familiar  friend.  She 
greets  him  with  the  calm,  placid  demeanor  of  a  sister, 
and  permits  him  to  sit  down  by  her,  asking  him  ques- 
tions about  the  family,  as  she  quietly  continues  the 
employment  that  engages  her.  He  does  not  seem  to 
like  it,  and  takes  the  light  fabric  from  her  hands. 

"  Please  allow  me  to  put  this  everlasting  embroid- 
ery away.  I  want  you  to  talk  to  me  now.  I  have 
come  for  the  answer  to  my  suit.  Tell  me  at  once. 
Am  I  to  go  back  now  and  come  no  more,  or  am  I  to 
hope  to  take  you  home  and  keep  you  forever?" 

There  is  no  flush  upon  her  cheek — no  change  in 
the  light  of  the  blue  eyes ;  and  she  speaks  very 
slowly  and  sadly,  looking  in  his  face : 

"  Theodore,  you  know  what  my  life  has  been  and  is. 
In  the  past,  pain  and  misery  beyond  what  most  women 
experience — far.  The  future  embittered  by  regrets 
that  will  never  die.  If  you  can  be  happy  with  me, 
thus  overshadowed — with  all  the  lightness  and  spirit 
of  youth  crushed  out  of  my  nature,  and  accept  a  sad- 
dened, prematurely  old  wife,  I  will  not  say  nay,  for 
you  are  dearer  to  me  than  all  earth  beside.  But  I 
tell  you  frankly  my  ability  to  make  your  life  bright 
with  strength  and  cheerfulness,  has  gone." 

"No,  dear  Ora,  you  mistake.  To  me  your  very 
presence  is  sunshine,  and  I  had  rather  have  one  of 
your  sweet,  quiet  smiles,  than  all  earth  beside.  Bless 
you,  darling.  I  am  at  peace,  now.  I  have  waited 
long,  Ora,  but  at  last  God  vouchsafes  me  a  reward  that 
doubly  compensates.  Mine  now— my  own  sweet 
wife — God  willing,  you  shall  know  sorrow  no  more.^ 


THE  ETs'D. 


